


Lovers That Went Wrong

by thelovelylydia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Future Fic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelovelylydia/pseuds/thelovelylydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Tyrion are thrown back together after the war and love is found, until what was supposed to be a joyous occasion turned into heartbreak, wrenching whatever hope of love they had far from grasp. SansaxTyrion. M for violence and sexual situations. R&R</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue- Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my short fict (meaning, not as long as Desperate to Connect but filled with as much angst). I am estimating this fict will be about nine to ten chapters long and will be posted weekly. I posted this under A Song of Ice and Fire instead of the show, because a lot of the characters and events referenced in this will make more sense to book readers, though some influence from the show has undoubtedly made its way into my work.
> 
> As always, I appreciate any and all reviews! And I hope you enjoy this piece, my dear readers. I love making stories for you! - Lydia.
> 
> P.S.: Yes, the title is from Daughters "Youth". Which I highly recommend you listen to.

"She's lost much blood,"

"She should have had the child by now."

"Perhaps shift her?"

The maids which gathered around Sansa had sent her once joyous heart into a panic as her body heaved with contractions. She had started that morning with gruesome pain, her abdomen twisting and causing her to wake from her deep sleep with a cry. The pain escalated throughout the evening and Sansa was exhausted by the time the sun had crept below the horizon. The ladies about her busied themselves with trying to make her comfortable, forcing her to drink water every now and again. Sansa had heard of women taking hours to birth, but for a woman to go all day? There was certainly something wrong.

A maid took her wrist in hand, pulling her upwards. "Come, my lady, we are going to turn you over."

Sansa felt her cheeks grow cold and numb as she was pulled upwards and pushed over to her knees, the maid pulling her pelvis back as Sansa let out another cry of pain. "Will it be soon?"

"I am not sure, my lady." The woman answered Sansa, but she kept her dark brown eyes from the lady. Sansa felt her heart race in panic.

"What are we to do if…?" A maid leaned over to ask the woman who held Sansa's hips.

"Hush!" Sansa could no longer see the women who had moved behind her and pulled her downwards.

Sansa let another cry out as her body shuddered with a contraction, a new sensation building in her woman's parts, one that was even more painful than the squeezing muscles in her tummy. "No need to worry, my lady, that was what this little one needed."

Sansa felt her arms shake as she struggled to hold herself up. "Quick, Alyce, go and hold her upwards so she does not fall."

A woman came to hold Sansa under her arms, Sansa's head lolling as her body screamed in pain. She pushed with another contraction, bucking in pain. "Just a few more large pushes, my lady." Sansa obeyed and as she felt the urge to let loose her muscles once more she let out a scream.

Two more pushes had freed Sansa's body of the child and she was turned over to her back, her chest heaving with the need for air. The women at her feet were quickly taking the baby in a towel, turning to take care of Sansa.

"There is much blood," the maid spoke again. Sansa felt her head grow light and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. Perhaps if she closed her eyes just for a moment…

"No! My lady," the girl who had been holding her up now pulled her into a seated position and cloths were being pressed to her woman's parts with much force. The girl who held her, Alyce, wrapped her arms around the new mother and gently brushed the wisps of auburn hair stuck to her sweaty forehead away. Sansa shivered in her grip.

"She is going into shock," the woman at her feet replied. "Much like a soldier; wrap her up tightly."

Sansa felt herself being shifted once more, her body being wrapped in a warm blanket as her head rested upon Alyce's lap. The girl began to move her hands rapidly up and down Sansa's arms.

"Call her lord husband in,"

"My child," Sansa could feel the shake in her voice. "Where is my baby?"

"How is the baby?" Alyce asked.

"Starting to make little noises, my lady," the woman who had taken her child encouraged the mother from across the room. "You have a little boy,"

"A boy," Sansa breathed. "Tyrion will be so pleased."

"I am sure he will," Alyce rocked her gently. "Now try and stay awake. We are calling him to the room now,"

"I want to see my baby," Sansa tried to sit up, but her muscles betrayed her and she fumbled back into the lap of Alyce.

"In time, my lady, you must gain your strength back."

"What do you mean?" Sansa's head was growing even more hazy, and she clutched Alyce's hand in terror. "I am not going to die, am I?"

"You certainly will not allow yourself to, my lady, will you?"

"No," Sansa shook her head.

"Sansa!" She heard her little lord husband's voice from across the room. The quick footsteps of boots could be heard crossing the room, and she felt a hand on her thigh. "Sansa, my love,…"

"I will be okay, Tyrion," she weakly wrestled an arm from the blanket she was wrapped in. She held her hand out to her husband, and he took it in his, kissing the palm gently. "I made it through the war."

"You did, my lady," she could hear the tension in his voice as he was fighting back tears. He could not think that she would give into death so easily. She could pull through this; she had a husband and now a son who was dependent on her.

"My lord," one of the other maids came to the bedside to stand beside Tyrion. The man turned to her with a frown. "Would you like to meet your son?"

"My son?" Tyrion's eyes widened as he looked at Sansa. She smiled back at him.

"I knew you would be proud. Go and see him, be the first to look at our future Lord of Casterly Rock." Sansa encouraged her husband.

He looked to her hesitantly, before respecting her wishes and going to the side of the room where the women were looking after the now crying newborn. Sansa could feel tears well in her eyes as her head thickened and her breathing labored. She wanted to hold her breath so that she could hear the small gasp of excitement which would come from her little lord husband upon seeing their new son. He would be a beautiful little boy, rescued from the war and sins of his grandparents to live and grow up happy in Casterly Rock with his parents, training in swordsmanship and knighthood.

She could not hold her breath as every gasp was harder than the last. She felt her eyes growing heavy when she heard Tyrion's inhale; it was not one of amazement and contentment, as she had suspected, but horror and surprise.

Before Sansa's world went dark she heard him whisper with a voice raw with anger. " _No, no not again."_


	2. The Feast, Day One- Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the interests in this story. I am doing my best to stay as close to canon and as close to characters as possible! Please don't kill me! And if you can, leave a review, even if it's a critique...God knows I need it. ~Lydia

Sansa was glad to be free of the covered carriage she had been forced to sit in for far too many days. The occasion which called for the two month long travel to Dorne was that of a wedding. Sansa anticipated good food and expensive wine, but she knew that there would be more tension at the event than joy.

She was assisted down from the elegant wooden carriage by her husband's squire, Podrick Payne, who kept his eyes looking at his feet and his cheeks burned red with embarrassment. She was glad that the boy had returned after the war to her and her husband's service; though, if truths were told, he was the better companion to Tyrion than he was to her.

Sansa herself turned to help her son, a few weeks shy of six years, down to the ground, hoisting him from underneath his arms and swinging him about with a laugh of merriment, falling to her knees before him and wrapping him in her arms, placing a kiss on his square cheek.

"Benjen, oh Benjen, we have finally made it to unmoving land!" She declared dramatically. Benjen let out a laugh as he pushed at his mother's shoulder in play.

"Mum," he said. "The land was not moving, we were."

"And how do you know this?" Sansa asked as she widened her eyes, her face portrayed mimed aghast.

"Father told me; he told me it's not the earth that is moving but the wheels beneath us. It is not magic, just simply…mech…"

"Mechanics," Tyrion's voice startled Sansa as he approached behind her. She turned to look at her husband with a warm smile, before turning back to her son.

"You will be as smart as your father someday," Sansa ruffled the boy's auburn hair.

"I certainly hope he will be," Tyrion muttered as he passed her. Sansa bit her lip as her husband walked forward with the rest of their men at arms.

"When are we going to see the princess?" Benjen asked.

"Soon, but first we need to put our things in our apartments," she stood from the ground, brushing the dust from her red satin dress. "Then we can have a bite to eat. Maybe your father will lead us through the gardens, together."

"If we ask him nicely, I am sure he will." Benjen's square face broke out into a smile.

"He is going to be asleep on the couch in the apartment if we do not hurry and catch up with him," Sansa beckoned her son, leaning over to take his hand. Benjen clasped his little hand in hers as the two walked as quickly as they were able to catch up to the Lannister lord.

"Father, father!" Benjen let go of Sansa's hand, running forth to join his father's side. "Mother said we should go and look at the gardens, the ones she's been telling me about ever since we started the journey!"

"Yes, perhaps we can see the gardens sometime," Tyrion's voice suggested he would rather not. He turned and looked at Sansa over his shoulder, his green eyes burning with annoyance. She knew he would much rather keep the boy cooped up in the apartments, but if they were in Dorne, how could she truly do such a thing to him?

"And the fountains and the fruits and the strange creatures that live there?" Benjen asked as he bounced excitedly beside his patriarch.

"All of that, and you'll see much more at the wedding. Surely there will be stuffed peacock and roasted pheasant, all kind of delicious fun things to eat."

"Beware the Dornish eggs, Benjen," Sansa warned her son. "They are hot on the tongue."

She followed behind her son and husband to the apartments the two were given for their stay at the castle for the wedding between Trystane Martell and Mrycella Baratheon. A match Tyrion had arranged when Sansa herself was betrothed to Joffrey, Myrcella's older brother. The girl was now six and ten years and Sansa had no doubt she inherited her mother's physical beauty—aside from some scars she herself carried from the war.

The only reason the royals were going through with such a marriage was to connect ties with Stannis Baratheon, the King of Westeros, as Myrcella was solely recognized as a daughter of Robert Baratheon, in an attempt to deny the shame of her real parentage, Sansa had no doubt.

Myrcella with her one ear and the damage on her pretty cheek and eyebrow would certainly be a much better match with a Martell heir than Stannis' own daughter, curious and bright little Shireen. As much as Stannis loved his daughter, one of the few endearing things about the Iron King, even he was not fool enough to give the little damaged girl as a bride to the prince of Dorne, though the little girl was to inherit the throne. Her face was marred by disease, not angry crowds, viewed as a curse by the Martell family.

Instead, Shireen was married a year earlier to Sansa's half-brother-now-cousin, Jon Snow. He was not Jon Snow, not any longer, he was Jon Targaryen, the offspring of the illicit relationship between Sansa's Aunt Lyanna and the Mad King's son, Rhaegar. The boy the Martells hated with a burning passion as his mother had distracted their Queen's king, but nothing could be done when that boy was to be the future ruler of Westeros, once Stannis' reign had ended. Apparently, at the time spent at the Wall, Shireen had grown a fancy for the older Night's Watch boy, and wanted the agile fighter and shrewd leader at her side, to sire her children. Sansa was sure that threats were made and Jon married the young girl only for duty's sake, but at the age of fourteen, Shireen had been placed under a cloak of a Stark influenced Targaryen maiden's cloak, the celebration lasting several weeks' time in King's Landing. Their wedding one of the few fond memories Sansa clung to in relation to her little lord husband.

But she and Jon were certainly not the only Starks left; Bran Stark was sent to the Wall when it was discovered that he was a Green Seer. Stannis put the willowy pale boy at the helm of Westeros' safety, in charge of using his third eye to detect threats to the realm and put an end to any possible attacks. He had become Stannis' watch dog at the gate, always on the lookout for the Others. He had come back as a shell from the wilderness, and reacted woodenly to the instructions fed him. There was rumor that Bran was to marry an Other princess in order to complete an ancient peace pact between the Others and the Westerosi, but Stannis was slow to bringing about that wedding. No doubt it was because, while Bran had the use of a third eye, he would never have the use of his legs. What kind of bargaining chip was a boy without a House and the ability to stand?

Then there was Rickon; wild and feisty young Rickon who Sansa had tried to organize a match for as the inheritor of Winterfell, but whose Skagos influenced manner turned the noses of many good lord husbands. Sansa hoped that perhaps the boy would join the Night's Watch and take up a place of solitude beside their brother, Bran Stark. He would not be able to inherit, but if Sansa was able to open her legs once more and produce another son, that boy could certainly inherit Winterfell, assuming Jon's wife would not give birth to two sons herself. The spoils would be harder to divide in that situation.

It would be good to see her sister again, Arya. She had come back nearly as hollow as Bran had; her only desire in life was to extract revenge. Stannis had seen it fit to marry the girl off to Willas Tyrell, a hardy and intelligent man whom Sansa would not have minded marrying at one time, but who was nearly twenty years her sister's senior. Not that Stannis cared much; it meant a marriage between the Starks and the Tyrells, creating a familial bind winding throughout the larger Houses.

Stannis Baratheon was forcing House and family together, elbow to elbow in a hope to broker further peace and hospitality outside of mere marriages. But if marriage was all he would be given, then he would arrange as many houses as he could. And with many lords lost to the battles that made up the war for the crown, he could easily control houses with barely adults at their helm.

Sansa had returned to her own unharmonious union under the Steel King, happier than she expected to see her little lord husband more alive than she ever thought. The two were reunited in the hopes that Sansa's bloodline would cure, or poison, the vileness which Stannis determined was passed from father to son in the line of lions. Starks were a hardy bunch, and Sansa herself had proved to be made of steel herself, and surely she could save Tyrion Lannister's future children. If she chose not to continue in her marriage, Stannis was content to wipe out every last remaining member of House Lannister in an attempt to quell further rebellion or opposition to his leadership.

She had returned to Tyrion to save the lives of young women and children who had no other crimes than having the name Lannister following their given names, though the effect did not last long, and they were either married off to Lannister bannermen to be controlled by Sansa and Tyrion, or exiled to the Wall. Sansa had also whelped a little lion pup a few short years after returning to her short marriage with the infamous Imp.

"Mother, come on!" Benjen grabbed hold of his mother's hand, pulling on it as he impatiently dragged her toward the plaza gardens through which the tanned servants of House Martell were leading the Lannisters of Casterly Rock.

"I am coming, Benjen, I promise I am right behind you." Sansa answered. She leant over once more as her son pulled her with his force.

She bit her lip as she followed her child and husband through the gardens, steeling herself even further as the three were entering a hub of businesses; a place where lords and ladies were reconvening after long separations caused by Stannis' rule.

She thought none would say anything concerning her small Lannister clan, until she heard one of the ladies bearing the stag head in a burning heart, the crest of the Baratheon's of Dragonstone. "The poor lady, she has two of them now."

Sansa wanted to turn and lash the woman with her tongue, but she knew that now was not the time to say anything. She bowed her head and crossed her hands before her hips as she continued her distance between herself and the company of many servants, Podrick, and Tyrion. She wanted to close her eyes, but feared tripping. She should be holding her head high, but she could not find the strength to do so.

Sansa could hear the cruel whispers and hoped that Benjen was too fascinated by the swaying frond trees in the wind, the chatter of the palace monkeys in the trees, and the singing of the brightly colored birds nestled in the large palms to hear the words.

She thought he would never know until one of the knights of House Tyrell stepped forward toward Tyrion and Benjen, a laugh crossing his lips. "I thought the Stark line was supposed to purge your blood, now I see that Imp does beget Imp."

Tyrion turned to the knight, his scarred brow twisting in rage as he looked up at the man who was laughing loudly. He was grimacing as he took a step forward, Benjen watching his father with tears sprouting in his eyes.

"And clearly the Tyrell blood produces nothing but pretty imbeciles," Tyrion's green eyes threatened. "A shame to waste Stark blood on your lot."

"At least Willas can give his direwolf bitch sweet smelling roses, not a race of half men." Sansa glanced over to watch her son who was being shielded by his father's stance before him.

"You want to come over here and say that a little louder, Petal Prince?" Sansa watched Tyrion place his hand at his side, ready to grab hold of his dagger.

"I would not want to cut you in half even further in front of your son, make you into a quarter man" the man remarked. Sansa took a step forward to intervene before the heated men drew weapons, but she was silenced by another voice.

"Ser Alastar, please, this is our family by marriage, be kind!" Margaery Tyrell, dressed in yellow and black, emerged from the cluster of Tyrell green and gold. "Lord Tyrion, it was an indiscretion on my cousin's part, do forgive him."

"Lady Margaery," Sansa greeted the woman, stepping forward.

"Lady Sansa!" Margaery's round face widened with a smile as her brown eyes lit up at the sight of a friend. Sansa had made the week long journey every two years to Highgarden to stay with the Tyrells for a spell since beginning her life in Casterly Rock, and she and Margaery had fostered a sort of friendship. "You look beautiful in your gown of gold and red."

"And you in your yellow and black," Sansa nodded her head.

"One would think that I would finally avoid these colors. But it seems that even I must follow the instructions of our… _noble_ King." Her intonation suggested anything other than nobility.

"How is Tommen?" Sansa asked as she noticed Tyrion listening in as the company paused in their walk to allow Sansa a moment of conversation.

"He is doing very well. He is a handsome young man now, near eight and ten." Margaery replied.

"Any news of expectancy?" Sansa asked.

"I would love to say that I am with child, but I am afraid I am still empty as my knight's head," she smiled sadly. "I am truly sorry about his…offense."

Sansa looked over at her son who was standing with his hand in his father's hand, the two of clear relationship with striking green eyes and stern brows. Benjen even had Tyrion's curly hair, though it was of Sansa's colouring.

"Come here, Ben" Sansa waved her hand over. Benjen slowly approached the two, his gate swaying as he walked. He gingerly approached his mother, wrapping his stunted fingers in her skirts. Sansa squatted gently at his side. "Lady Margaery, this is my son Benjen. You met him once, he was very young."

"Met, more like was able to glance and not much more; it was a quick visit to Casterly Rock and he was sleeping if I recall."

"Benjen, this is Lady Margaery of Storm's End." Sansa introduced her son to the older woman. "She visits Highgarden very frequently, though it is far, and I try and keep her company when she is there."

"A pleasure to meet you, my lady." Benjen replied with trained politeness. He bowed slightly at his waist, causing Margaery to chuckle.

"A son of your mother's, with your proper lordly skills," she said gently. "Perhaps I will see you later in the day, at the welcome feast?"

"All the lords and ladies are required, I am sure you will see more of him later. But first our little lord needs a bath and a change of clothes," Sansa kissed his cheek roughly. Benjen made a sound of mock disgust. "I should be on my way as well,"

"Sansa…I did not…I mean I am sorry," Margaery offered an apology as the woman pulled away from her son and watched him walk off once more with the entourage the Lannisters had brought with them.

"What for?" Sansa asked as she looked over the woman.

"For your son," Margaery said.

"There is nothing wrong with him," Sansa said.

"He's a dwarf," Margaery whispered sharply, exclamation still played on the hushed tone.

"He is my son," Sansa looked at the woman with cold blue eyes. She turned without another word and left Lady Margaery standing with her mouth agape in preparation for words she was not given the chance to utter.

* * *

The apartments provided for Tyrion and Sansa, their son and their servants, was spacious enough that there would be a proper distance between their knights and handmaidens, but not enough to provide Sansa and Tyrion the space the two had grown used to between one another. Sansa felt her heart race in her throat when she realized how close she and Tyrion would be.

Tyrion said nothing to her as he passed her and settled on the chaise, leaning back on the cushions and letting out a bone weary sigh. Sansa was used to the silence, though it unnerved her and took all her strength to bite her tongue.

"Mum!" Benjen's excited cry broke the tension; Sansa sank to her knees again to envelope her son in her arms. "Ser Podrick told me that he would bring me to the roofs to look over the gardens."

"Did he?" Sansa glanced up at the man-once-boy who was burning red at the chance of receiving a scolding from the boy's protective mother. Sansa knew that Benjen would be in good hands, and he might as well see as much as the world as he could. Her sheltered life had done her no kindness when she was prisoner at King's Landing.

"Can I?" Benjen bounced on his thick feet. Sansa ran her fingers through his copper curls and smiled.

"Of course, my love. Be sure to do all he says," she watched Benjen bound away from her to join the trusted squire's side. "And stay far from the sides."

"I will not go near them!" Benjen insisted, turning to look at Podrick. "How far do you think I can see?"

"For miles, I can imagine, m'lord." Podrick answered the excited boy's question as he led him from the room.

"I knew it was a bad idea to bring him to the wedding; he is too young," Tyrion sat up, kicking his boots from his feet with his toes.

"Nonsense, he is a growing boy," Sansa stood and hesitantly took a step towards her husband. "He should see the world now, when people do not expect much from him. You have kept him from every wedding so far."

Tyrion looked at her feet, a smirk crossing his face as he shook his head. Sansa frowned at his mockery. "What is it you wish to say?"

"People expect him to be a jape, Sansa," Tyrion pushed off the chaise, and she realized he had spotted the decanter of wine on the balcony, which hosted a table and several chairs.

"I think it would be good for the lords and ladies of Westeros and Dorne to meet the future heir of Casterly Rock," Sansa followed her husband, taking to a chair as he took to the wine. "He cannot hide in those walls for his entire life."

Tyrion's green eyes watched her as he took a large sip of wine from his glass. His lip was wet with the drink when he set the cup back on the table. Sansa reached forward to try to affectionately wipe away the wine, but Tyrion pushed her hand away.

"No," Tyrion took his cup again. "But he will wish he could."

Sansa balled her hands in her lap as she let her gaze drop to her feet. "Are you anticipating the wedding, my lord?"

"I am anticipating there to be a lot of fights, that I am looking forward to," Tyrion took the chair across from her. "To put so many Houses together who hate one another. The crueler jape is that Stannis is marrying enemies faster than my father did."

"Perhaps it will mend Westeros, maybe he is not wrong." Sansa offered. Tyrion looked at her, his mouth twisting into a fake laugh.

"The only worse decision Stannis could make is marrying a Martell to a Lannister, thankfully there is not much of my kind left." He took another cup of wine. "And the one left will not be married to the Martells. Or a Tyrell for that matter."

Sansa swallowed hard, biting her lip before voicing her mind. "You are upset at what Ser Alastair said to Benjen,"

"Are you not?" He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, I am frightfully angry and I wanted to clot the man in the nose for saying such a thing,"

"That would have been a fight I would have loved to see," Tyrion laughed, but this time the reaction was genuine and Sansa felt her chest loosen a little. "You would have torn him apart, my lady bitch."

She could not help but grin back at him, her cheeks turning rosy as she accepted her husband's insult disguised compliment. "He should be glad that Lady Margaery intervened."

"The poor girl, married to my nephew. The dear boy he is, he is much younger than she." Tyrion looked out over the balcony's ledge, fondling his cup as he sank back in the chair.

"That is not entirely uncommon,"

"No, but not having a child is. Especially at Margaery's age." Tyrion took another draught.

"Do you remember when we…when we conceived Benjen?" Sansa asked, her cheeks turning color once more as she tiptoed gently over a topic she was still embarrassed to talk about. Tyrion paused, his attention turning back to his wife. "I do not even know if we can define the day he must have began,"

"All those nights we spent in each other's arms," Tyrion nodded his head. "It was rather foolish and naïve of us, was it not, Sansa? Are we not the definition of two enemy houses meant to be at war and not in harmony?"

"I am not sure I would be so quick to agree, my lord." Sansa hung her head once more. "I…we were once very strong with one another."

Tyrion chuckled a wooden laugh and he shook his head. "The gods made sure that we were set straight,"

"Tyrion," Sansa's blue eyes fluttered up to catch his. He pushed himself from the chair, returning to the room. "A shame we sent Podrick as our son's escort, though I should join them and tell the two that it is near time we changed for supper. I will leave you to your handmaidens, Sansa."

"Yes, my lord." Sansa stiffly answered, her throat burning as she blinked away the blurring vision in her eyes.

Tyrion left the room, the door closing behind him. Sansa deflated into the chair, her head falling forward to rest on the table, her forehead perched on her arm and her mind numb.

* * *

The feast which marked the beginning of wedding festivities was as grand and overcrowded as Sansa could imagine. Tyrion, she, and Benjen arrived as the sun was beginning to set in the late afternoon. The three were a matched House. Sansa donning a crimson gown, with a skirt which split at the front to reveal gold under skirt, and the dress boasted a deep neckline, a silver belt encased her curved waist and she wore her beloved dragonfly necklace about her throat. Tyrion had dressed in a matching doublet of crimson with gold patterning, he wore black breeches underneath. Little Benjen was much the same as his father, but Sansa had him dressed in a sleeveless crimson jerkin with a white tunic beneath and black breeches. His jerkin had gold etched into the designs, but he would be much cooler in the Dorne heat.

Sansa followed her husband and son to a table toward the back of the rows, an ugly reminder of their placement at the first royal wedding she had attended. Tyrion must have felt the same as he settled onto the wooden bench with a frown on his face and quickly reached for his goblet and the decanter.

"Tyrion," Sansa looked over at him. He gave her his attention, but annoyance lined his features as he held the decanter mid pour. "Just be wise with your wine, my lord." She glanced down to Benjen who settled between the two.

Sansa waved Podrick over and asked the squire to go and find a few pillows to place beneath her son so that he could properly reach the table. Podrick nodded his head as he turned to obey the lady.

"This is a sad repeat of the first wedding we attended together," Tyrion commented after taking a gulp of wine. He had placed the cup down instead of nursing it against his chest, pleasing Sansa that he would show restraint for the sake of their son.

"What wedding?" Benjen turned his head to look at his father. Tyrion leaned over and kissed his son on the forehead.

"Do you remember the story I told you of the boy king, Joffrey Baratheon?" Tyrion asked.

"He was not very nice at all," the boy nodded his head.

"Your mother and I attended his wedding to cousin Margaery. That was when he drank the poison that was put in the cup."

"Oh," Benjen beckoned his father closer, placing a hand against his cheek in a gesture to keep his next statement between the two of them. "But it was not you or mother that did it." His whisper was louder than he meant. Sansa smiled to herself, knowing she could not acknowledge his secret or she would disappoint him.

"No, no we did not," Tyrion ruffled his son's hair. "You are a good lad, paying attention closely to the stories I have told you."

"Mother says that I will be as smart as you someday, that I will use my smartness and my bravery like you and do things that people will tell in stories," Benjen placed his hand on his father's arm. Sansa caught Tyrion's gaze peering at her through his curly bangs. The stare caused her cheeks to turn pink, but for once his green eyes were not filled with contempt. He looked pleased at the report his son gave him, that his mother spoke so highly of his father.

"Maybe you will, Ben," Tyrion answered his son. "I hope that you will never have to see anything like the war of the Five Kings ever in your lifetime."

"But then where will all the stories of dragons and Targaryens and knights and Hounds come from?" Benjen insisted.

"From your mind, you will make them all up and become the teller of stories," Tyrion pointed first to his son's large forehead and then poked at his belly, causing the boy to double over in a fit of laughter. "Unless you are overcome by this monster," Tyrion said as he tickled his son.

Sansa smiled as she watched her son and husband wrestle with one another, smiling and laughing. She realized she missed Tyrion's smile. His genuine smile, which pulled at the scar across his face and caused his harsh green eyes to light up with merriment. The two learned to laugh together, whether it was when they were crashing into one another in the sheets or watching the sunset over the sea whilst dining at Casterly Rock and telling stories of childhood adventures and sibling anecdotes to one another (though admittedly, Sansa had more of those than Tyrion did). They had found happiness in one another for a time.

Sansa felt a tickle on her cheek and brushed at it absently. She was surprised to find that her fingertips came away wet, and she bowed her head, blinking furiously to free herself of the rebel tears. She sniffed as quietly as she could, her thumbs brushing under her blue eyes.

"Mum, why are you crying?" Benjen turned and looked at her with wide concerned green eyes. She broke into a forced smile, shaking her head.

"You were so funny, I laughed so hard my eyes watered," Sansa lied as she turned to see Podrick returning with pillows in hand. "Look at what Ser Pod has returned with, Ben. Now you will be able to reach the table and eat just like a proper lord."

Benjen turned to the squire with a wide smile on his square face. "Podrick is the best squire a lord could want."

"He certainly is," Tyrion pulled his son up by his elbows, causing him to stand on the bench besides his father. "Now let him put your royal pillows down, my lord, and you will truly see that he was able to fetch the best ones in all of Dorne."

Podrick took the cue to set the pillows on the bench, and Sansa helped her son climb onto them. Benjen settled onto the boosters and turned to smile at the squire.

"Can m'lord see now?" Podrick asked.

"I can," the boy nodded his head vigorously.

Sansa thanked the squire kindly for helping her son with his seating arrangements, and then turned to the boy to straighten his doublet and comb his unruly hair with her fingers. She grinned proudly at her work, he was looking more lordly and less messy; her son's scowl, on the other hand, showed that he was much happier being less proper.

Those who were milling about the tables, talking and visiting families they had been separated from or friends not seen since the end of the war, quickly returned to their rightful places when the dais was occupied with Lady Myrcella and Lord Trystane. The two were a handsome but contrasting pair, Myrcella with her pale skin and gentle, blonde features and Trystane with sun kissed tanned skin, dark hair, and dark eyes.

Sansa could not help but smile at the beautiful children before her, though she knew that closer up Lady Myrcella was marred. She had her ear cut off and her face badly scarred during an attempted abduction from Dorne years ago. Sansa could see that the girl was wary of her flaw, her smile not as bright, her hair curtained over her shoulders, hanging loosely around her head instead of pulled into an intricate lattice of braids and ribbons. She felt bad for the young woman; how many lives had the War of the Five Kings ruined all for the sake of power?

The tension in the room grew as the pair was quickly joined by King Stannis, his grim, hard face looking over his subjects. His hands were crossed behind his back; his stance was wide and indicated he was the one who was in charge. He wore a beautiful leather doublet of black with yellow patterning about the shoulders. His breeches were also black, making his already thin legs seem that much more spindly. His wife had been killed in the many raids of Winterfell when it was held by the Boltons, a family which was completely wiped out from existence in Westeros. They were killed alongside the Greyjoys, public executions that had little justice and too much cruelty.

Instead of Queen Selyse standing next to the man, it was a beautiful woman with glowing red hair and an even more flaming smile. She was dressed in red robes, a crimson hood covered the crown of her head. Sansa could not help but find the woman unworthy of trust; there was something about her features that said she was nothing more than a fraud. She must be the oft spoken about Melisandre, the priestess of Stannis' god R'hllor. She was rumored to have magic abilities of smiting people dead and awakening those who had perished to the land of the living. Sansa found the entire affair to be repulsive and degrading, she chose to return to the worship of her family's old gods, and Tyrion had planted for her a weirwood at Casterly Rock. He himself did not care much for the gods who had cursed him, but he wanted her to be comforted by faith if it would do so.

"Lords and Ladies of Westeros," Stannis began, his facial features unmoving to betray any sense of emotion as his mouth moved up and down. "We are brought here today, as we were at many of your weddings, to rejoice in the union and reconciliation of House Baratheon and House Martell with the marriage of Lady Myrcella Baratheon and Tyrstane Martell. Lady Myrcella shall be taking up the duty of the Royal Lady of Dorne,"

"I thought she was going to be _queen_ ," Benjen whispered to Sansa. She looked over to her husband for help in explaining what was going on. Tyrion was looking her way, leaning closer to his son and whispered.

"Stannis has united the nations of Dorne and Westeros, there is no need for a King in Dorne any longer, he has given himself that title," his voice was gentle and raspy as he whispered to their son, and Sansa could not help but smile at his gentle nature.

"Oh," Benjen replied. "I thought you were going to marry her to a prince."

"Once a long time ago, he was," Sansa interjected this time. She quieted and turned back to listening to Stannis' edict.

"We as a kingdom of Westeros are going to grow strong once again. All threats have been vanquished; the dragons which once threatened us are under the greatest of care,"

"The dragons went to Uncle Jon, did they not?" Her son whispered again.

"Yes, you know that. You have your father tell you that story nearly every night, now hush before we are thrown out of the hall and we cannot partake in the feast," she scolded her son's interruption. He blanched and placed his short, stubby hands over his mouth in an external representation of keeping quiet. Sansa rolled her eyes with a smile on her lips. Benjen could have as much dramatics as his father.

"We see this marriage as a promise that we are going to heal with one another after the terrible war which slaughtered your mothers, daughters, fathers, and sons. We are responsible for the misgivings, for the violence. If those who were not chosen by R'hllor to have power in the land had bent their knee sooner, then we would have been spared the loss of life. Let this be a reminder to all that the gods your families once worshipped are false, and want nothing more than to see we mortals tear one another apart. The Lord of the Light wishes to unify us all,"

Melisandre stepped forward next to Stannis, her arms raised towards the heavens, "For the night is dark and full of terrors, but R'hllor can protect us with his light."

"I am sure R'hllor gives less fucks about us than the Seven," Tyrion muttered into his cup. Sansa reached behind Benjen and pinched the back of her husband's arms. He whined and looked at her, she merely responded by widening her eyes in warning and shaking her head.

"Let us celebrate in the light!" Melisandre commanded.

"Let the feast begin."

Servants came from the sides bearing trays of plates piled with food, stopping before each little House lined along the tables. The first item presented was a spicy smelling soup with small chunks of meat floating in its orange broth. Sansa had never taken to the hot spices of Dornish cuisine, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. She placed her spoon in the bowl and took a sip despite her common sense, and coughed at the burning sensation which coated her tongue and throat. She swallowed quickly and then coughed, reaching forward to take a gulp of wine, and downed the mouthful of strong drink, pulling the cup from her mouth and trying to politely cough away the unpleasant pain.

"Sansa," she heard worry in Tyrion's voice, and she turned her head to look at him. His green eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, and he pushed his decanter towards her. "Have more wine, my lady,"

"Thank you, my lord," Sansa's raw throat managed as a servant girl came to her side and filled her drink cup.

"Are you well, mum?" Benjen asked, and she saw the alarm in her son's matching green eyes as he looked up at her. She blinked away a couple tears sprung by her coughing and nodded her head.

"Your mother has never handled Dornish spices well," Tyrion spoke up when she could not. "When we went to the royal wedding's breakfast, years before you were even born, they served Dornish eggs. She did her best to pretend she was not interested in the food, but I saw her reach for a cup to quickly drown the burning in her mouth. The same thing happened at the feast for the wedding of Uncle Jon and Aunt Shireen. It is why you've not tasted these foods before," Tyrion explained. Sansa felt her heart skip as she listened to her husband speak to their son. He had never ordered Dornish food to be presented to their son on her behalf? She had always assumed it was because Tyrion did not like the dish, and so had no interest in eating the foods in his own castle. She had once confided in him her strong dislike of the spice, but she never thought he would take it into much consideration after the times and winds passed through their relationship.

Benjen grabbed hold of the spoon in his hand, gripping it more like a tool than a utensil. Sansa could not expect her son to grasp every noble sensibility; his fingers were too stubby and small at his current size to elegantly hold the item, and she did not wish to shame him any further. She watched her son take a bite of the soup, his lips cringing and his eyes narrowing as he gulped the mouthful. Tyrion laughed at the boy's reaction. "I can see you care for the dish as much as your mother does," Tyrion said. He turned back to his cup, muttering into the hollow depths before taking a drink. "Her blood must course somewhere through you,"

Sansa frowned, but paid not further attention to the comment. It was not meant as an insult to her looks and mannerisms, but clearly a mutterance regarding what Tyrion regarded his faults. She felt her cheeks burn as she desperately wanted to come up with conversation instead of being left wordless among her family, a poor representation for the other Houses which looked down upon them with enough pity already.

Benjen, her godsend of a son with a mouth the size of his father's, was able to save the pair from uncomfortable silence. "Why are we not sitting with Uncle Jon and Aunt Shireen?"

He pointed to the very front of the feast area to the head table where Shireen and Jon's backs were to them. Shireen's dark hair was intricately braided in a thick braid down her back, part of the back of her neck was grey with her scaled affliction. Jon sat next to her, his body the contrast to her upright and queenly posture; he slumped and she could see his elbows on the edge of the table. _My mother taught him manners as she taught the rest of us, once bastard or not_. Sansa found she was unexplainably irritated with her cousin's behavior. But she could not fault him for feeling terrible being married to a girl near ten years younger than him. She glanced at Tyrion out of the corner of her eye. _He is not the only one to be placed with a spouse of a different age_.

"Uncle Jon is considered a Stark by Lord Stannis, who wishes to deny the dangerous dragon side of him, and Lady Shireen is a Baratheon, the King's own daughter. We are Lannisters, my son,"

"But you are a Stark lady, I am half a wolf, that is what father always says," the boy insisted.

"It does not always work that way, Ben." Tyrion intervened. "Uncle Jon is not up there because he is considered a great House, his true House, House Targaryen, is seen as a threat to the realm after what the vanquished Khaleeshi Dany tried in an effort to gain her crown back. Uncle Jon is married to Aunt Shireen to be sure that he will not have interest in rising up against the throne as your passed Uncle Robb did and creating a lineage of which King Stannis would never approve."

Sansa bit her lip; there was not much to fear in the way of Jon, he had no desire to be king of anything and wanted to stay at the Wall. But he was not given Shireen, he was given _to_ Shireen. The difference made it impossible for him to decline. She was glad that Tyrion had permitted the story telling of her brother and her mother to be told in kind epithets, homages to their bravery and their death.

"So it is because she is the princess and not because Uncle Jon is a great lord."

"He should be," Sansa began, she knew it was against her better judgment to continue, but she knew that despite the coldness between her and her husband, he would never betray her confidence to the men who looked for every opportunity to destroy her blood line. "The King of the Realm and the King of the North, marrying whomever he wished and having great royal babies." Sansa replied.

"Sansa, do not speak too loudly," Tyrion warned. Sansa felt her cheeks burn red. "You know we must never refer to Uncle Jon as King until Stannis dies and Jon actually inherits the throne." Sansa knew how Tyrion wanted to finish the sentence— _in case his priestess whore doesn't whelp a son for him to claim as the rightful heir chosen by the Lord of the Light_ —but she was glad that this sentiment he had shared with her long ago was kept quiet.

"I know, I do not want Uncle Jon to find trouble. Or you or mother," Benjen replied. Sansa wrapped her arm around the back of her son, leaning over to kiss his cheek roughly.

"You are the smartest, cleverest, bravest boy I have," Sansa cooed over him, tickling him gently. He laughed, pushing her away.

"I am the only boy you have," he rolled his short neck as he tried to ward off another kiss from his mother. "When will I have brothers and sisters like many of the children in Westeros?"

"Not all have brothers and sisters; Aunt Shireen is King Stannis' only daughter," Tyrion reasoned as Sansa remained frozen, answerless.

"But you had a brother and a sister, and mother had five siblings; I want someone to be my blood friend." Benjen's voice was filled with longing and Sansa felt her breath catch.

"It does not always work out that way, my son," Tyrion replied, never once looking at his wife. "You are the only lot an ugly old Imp like me has been blessed with, a blessing I'll take without asking for more."

 _You mean you will not ask me for more?_ Sansa closed her eyes, turning away for a moment to clear the glassiness which overtook her vision; she did her best to remain composed before her son.

"I still wish the gods would give me an eternal friend in a sibling," Benjen muttered into his bowl of soup.

"Look Benjen," Sansa's voice was thick with her emotions as she gestured to the servants coming with the next course of the meal. "It seems that they have sweet breads for you to try; I do hope they have bits of fruit and dates in them,"

Benjen let out an excited whoop and Sansa tried to smile at her son's enthusiasm, but she could not. She was gasping silently for breaths, her lungs collapsing in a wave of guilt and sadness.

She was glad her son leaned forward as the bread came to the table to greedily take a large slice in hand. She blinked and a renegade tear slid down her cheek. The feeling of a stare was uncanny, and she glanced over to see Tyrion looking at her with raised eyebrows, one full and one sliced in half by his scar. They locked eyes for a second and Sansa felt another tear loose from the other eye. Tyrion blinked, and then turned back to the table, pouring for himself another cup of wine and beginning to drink deeply.


	3. The Feast, Day Two- Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support and love, my readers. As always, if you can leave a review, please do! I appreciate every word you send, and sometimes it helps me write better (usually it does). Also, if you didn't know, this week (September 28-October 4) is Sansa x Tyrion Appreciation Week over at tumblr! Check out the tag Sanrion Appreciation Week, or just Sansa x Tyrion, and check it out! - Lydia
> 
> P.S.- Sorry if Stannis is godawful, I am trying. Rip me apart, please.

The second day dwelling in Dorne only made Tyrion more irritable. He wanted nothing more than to hide away in the apartments all day, arriving for the feast only when it was necessary and any disobedience would only serve to anger Stannis to the point of destruction. But he was married to Lady Sansa, and Lady Sansa knew how to woo and astonish the court, making them come to love her.

 _They were wrong in keeping her married to me; that was their true mistake._ Tyrion thought bitterly as he sat at the table for another night of feasting and song and merriment celebrated only because not doing so would provoke the ire of the Iron King. _They should have made her Queen. But Stannis would never marry anyone other than his Red Priestess harlot, and I would not wish such misfortune upon Sansa._

He looked to his elbow, Benjen sitting extremely close to him with a figurine of a knight and a lady in hand. He was playing some game with his empty cup where the Lady would be stuck inside the hollow body and the knight would have to go on a daring rescue to save him. He had to sit doubled over on his calves atop the special seat which was finally unpacked for him so he could reach the table, even then his short arms barely reached.

 _I remember, my son, I remember not being able to sit like all the other lords and ladies. I speak of Stannis cursing my wife, but he would not have given my wife another dwarf to stand next to. She pretends to be so proud, but her courtesies have fooled many an idiot before._ He took hold of the goblet of wine before him without thinking, dumping the contents into his mouth and savoring the heady taste of Arbor Gold.

"Look, father," Benjen exclaimed as he held the knight at an angle, making the toy impossibly climb the curve outside of the cup. "It is just like in all the songs that are being sung at the wedding—the knight is climbing the tall tower to save the lady."

"Yes, my son, I see," Tyrion took a moment to place his cup down to watch his son. He wanted to berate the boy for his stupidity, that there was no such thing as knights climbing towers to save ladies, that most knights were haughty and narcissistic, that he might as well understand the songs are lies. But he could not bear to see the sadness in the mirror image of his green eyes. So he only encouraged the senseless fantasies.

"And she will be saved from the tower and be swept away to marry the brave knight, just like mother married you." The boy's naiveté was something which should be regarded as foolish ignorance and brushed off his shoulders, but Tyrion felt his body tense as he looked down at his son.

"Hush, and play with your figurines, Ben," Sansa replied as she placed an arm around her son, resting her chin on his small shoulder opposite Tyrion. "Not everything you hear in songs in the truth."

Tyrion looked past his son's face to see Sansa looking at him with her clear blue eyes. It was a truth he had uttered to her once, at a wedding long ago when she had protested the lies in song. He watched her pink mouth curve into a sad smile, her eyes still watching his face. What was this look upon her? Why was she inclined to look at him so? She was angry with him; he knew that underneath her façade that was really how she felt.

"That is not true, right, father? Everything in songs is true!" Benjen protested loudly, causing several diners ahead of the two to turn their heads and look back.

"Quiet, Ben!" Tyrion responded, shooting daggers at the lords and ladies who had turned around to react to the young one. "Your mother is right; sometimes things happen in songs which are not true."

"So they lie to me?" His eyes went wide, his mouth opening, and his eyebrows depressing. A look of disappointment.

"Yes, son, they lie to you. Just as many a person will do in your life." Tyrion looked at Sansa.

"Tyrion!" Her voice was sharp, but she turned to her son instead of her husband. "Do not listen to the harsh words of your father. Yes, songs are like fairy tales sometimes. They can make people look bold and beautiful when they are not, brave and heroic when they were cowards or cruel."

"That is not very fair!" Benjen threw his toys to the table, crossing his arms.

"Do not throw your gifts again, Benjen," Sansa scolded their son, taking the lady and the knight in her hands, rubbing a thumb over their small wooden bodies to check for battle damage. "Your father had these made for you specially; you should treat them with kindness."

"Sorry," Benjen mumbled, taking the figures from Sansa's hand.

"It is not I you should be apologizing to," Sansa said. Tyrion had taken to drinking once more as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. Sansa was going to make sure their son would be a good lord; proper and polite. Not drunken and craven like her husband, no doubt.

"Sorry, father," Benjen turned to Tyrion, his green eyes looking up remorsefully.

"They are just toys, Ben, I can always have more made," Tyrion replied, reaching out to ruffle his son's hair, their show of affection. Sansa frowned.

"That does not mean we should just act spoiled with the things we are given," she replied. "Treat these well, Ben, so that your father does not need to order more for you."

Tyrion shrugged his shoulders, his mind swimming with the wine he had consumed and finding that he really did not give two shits what Ben did with his things; Tyrion would give the clever boy more. More than he had growing up.

"My fair ladies and lords, my fair princess and my gallant prince," A singer stepped forward on the stage. Tyrion groaned inwardly; not another singer given another stage. He had to endure this every wedding he and Sansa were herded to, and it was the least favorite night. He usually tried to get piss drunk and then wander off somewhere to pass out.

A servant passed by their table, pausing when she caught sight of Benjen. She starred warily at the boy as she held the pitched she carried at her hip, her eyes widening in disbelief as she beheld the boy with short arms and legs and a head too big for his shoulders. Tyrion felt himself scowl, his mind quickly thinking of things to say to the woman as she gawked.

Sansa instead intervened. "Can I help you?"

"I was just…the children have all been taken from the hall and brought to the royal gardens to play so as to not have to sit and interrupt the evening," the woman replied. Tyrion let out an audible snort of disbelief and felt Sansa turn her head to glare at him.

"Benjen is a good boy, he will sit patiently." Sansa reasoned.

"Besides, why would your pretty little wards want to play with my son?" Tyrion asked gruffly. "They would only stare like a green boy in a whorehouse. Or have you not caught sight of your own empty headed gaping?"

"Tyrion," Sansa's voice was low with warning, turning back she addressed the servant with sarcastic pleasantness. "He will do just fine here, and should he be in need to leave, then we will send for you especially."

Sansa would not; the only caretaker the two trusted with the boy was Podrick, and he was waiting reverently behind the two, his hands crossed before his hips. Tyrion watched the woman under his hooded brow, his cup placed at his mouth. She shuddered visibly when she looked back at him, striding forward as if the glare had shocked her back into remembering and completing her task.

"You should go out to the gardens, Ben," Sansa turned to her son when the servant was out of earshot.

"No, the boys like to play with wooden swords and they all like to play me and hit me with them. Their arms are so much longer and they can reach me better," Benjen shook his copper head. Sansa sighed.

"Fine, but you will need to be to bed earlier than we are,"

"But mum!"

"Do not question your mother, Benjen," Tyrion looked down to his son. "When she tells you to do something, you will obey."

Benjen ducked his head, his brows knitting as he rigidly took the wooden toys in hand again. His small mouth pouted as he slumped over and crossed his toy filled hands across his body. "I would want to play if I had a brother or sister."

"Benjen, now is not the time," Sansa responded.

"No!" Benjen hollered. "Why can't you just be like all the other mothers and fathers and give me a baby brother?!" Several tables ahead of them turned as the boy let out a cry. "It's not fair, it's not fair!"

Tyrion felt his stomach tighten as his son continued the scene, his legs kicking as he began to throw a tantrum. He was near as loud as the singer on the stage.

"Benjen, hush," Sansa placed her hands on the boy's arms.

"You will stop it this instant, Benjen," Tyrion turned to scold his son. "You will stop talking of things you will not understand, and you will obey your mother."

"And look at the bear and the maiden fair, their little cub child screaming and shouting!" The singer laughed. Tyrion glanced about and saw several fools jumping their way down the rows toward the small family.

"You said you would get me whatever I wanted," Benjen replied. "I want a brother or sister!"

"Please, Benjen," Sansa glanced up and Tyrion saw her cheeks whiten. She must have caught sight of the growing spectacle as well. The singer bounded from the stage, a fool following. The performer passed the rows ahead easily, before slipping down their aisle. Tyrion looked down the tables and saw the man coming.

"Stop, leave them be," a voice cried out from the row ahead of them. Tyrion looked past the singer and saw Bran sitting with several of the members of the Night's Watch, a special chair which Tyrion himself had designed for his good brother kept him upright on the bench. "There are more stories to tell then that ancient fairy rhyme."

"Ah, but it is so much more exciting when the fables become fact," the singer laughed. Tyrion felt his mouth turn into a scowl as the singer approached. "And here we have the human cub crying. What is it you want, young child?"

The singer stood before the table, looking down at Benjen. Tyrion felt his heart jump in his chest as the taller man bore down on the small innocent boy.

"Do not say anything to this man," Tyrion whispered to his son.

"Oh, the Lord Bear tries to quiet the little one!" The singer spread his arms and announced the actions to the crowd which could not see. "What is it you desire, child?"

"My name is Benjen!" The boy responded.

"Benjen, hush," Sansa placed her arm on the boy, looking up with fire in her eyes at the man who stood before the three.

"And what is it you desire, Lord Benjen? I could not hear of it way up on the dais toward the front of the room," the smile on the man's pale face was wicked. "Speal of it and I shall make it true in a song."

"Will you?" The boy's eyes lit up with a starry glow.

"Yes, m' lord," the singer bowed his head.

"Benjen—" Tyrion growled.

"I want a brother or a sister; can you make them my dear friends in the song?" Benjen asked.

This was all the blood of Sansa in his young child. He did not think that one could pass on innocent optimism, but his son dreamed of knights and ladies and beautiful stories just as Sansa had before she was awoken to reality. Tyrion had been sobered when he was a child, reminded of who he was and what he could not do. Sansa had done the child a disservice by coddling him and making him think he could become a knight of the myths. _Am I blaming my lady wife for this?_

"Ah, another human cub for the mismatched Lannister family," the singer replied. "And should he be a little Imp like you, child? Should he be short of stature and brutish of brow?"

"He will be a friend that I can train with to be a knight!"

Tyrion felt his face fall into his hand as his elbow rested on the table. He was fearful to see more, but what could he do about this aside from ripping his son from the conversation and causing further embarrassment? The court was Sansa's battlefield and she would have to win the boy out of this one.

"Benjen," Sansa placed a hand on his shoulder.

"A knight, a knight of the songs I sing?" The singer's voice was lined with mock. "Tall and proud?"

"I will be the best knight and I will train my little brother, just as my Uncle Jon and my Uncle Robb used to do!"

"Your traitor Uncle Robb?" The man laughed. Tyrion looked up at the man with dark eyes; that was the one thing that their son had never learned and never would—Robb Stark was brave and as clever as a fifteen year old boy could be. He was not a traitor, he was a good man. Tyrion glanced over at Sansa whose mouth was agape, but whose darting eyes gave away she was struggling for words.

"Benjen, ignore the singer. Remember what we have told you about their lies."

"Our lies, Imp?" The singer laughed. "Because you do not want to be reminded of the horrid creature you are?"

"My father is a good lord! Clever and brave, my mother says!" The boy insisted.

"Benjen, I think it is time for bed." Tyrion turned to motion toward Podrick who took a step toward the family.

"Singer, leave the boy be," this voice came from the very first row of diners. Tyrion looked up from the man before the table to see his good brother Jon was standing with crossed eyebrows on his face.

"I just wanted the court to know of the growing knight, my prince," the man before them insisted. "I wanted to show our lord and ladies that their sons will be beaten by the Lannister knight. Come, my young ser, come and stand here on the table so that we shall see your noble nature."

Benjen struggled to his feet, his hand reached out to the out held palm before him. Tyrion felt his eyes widened as he lunged toward the boy. "No, Benjen. Sansa, do something!"

She sat frozen as the singer helped Benjen to the table, standing the small boy on the wood. "Your next Lannister beast who will ravage your young maidens fair and beautiful just as his sire."

"Enough!" Jon cried. The singer took Benjen under his arms and began to raise him. Tyrion felt helpless as he knew that was nothing he could do to the man aside from verbally berating him, and that would do little good.

The action prodded Sansa into action. She stood from the bench, taking Benjen in her hands, pulling him from the stunned singer and into her arms. Benjen looked up at his mother with confusion. Tyrion could feel his chest deflate as he let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"I believe it is time for you to return to the apartments, Benjen." She turned to place the boy on the ground and Tyrion motioned for Podrick to join their side. The boy was quick to the table and even more swift in escorting the boy out of the outdoor hall.

"My lady, you do your little knight a disservice, though, I am sure they will all know the mark of your bear when the human cub comes after their sons and daughters," the singer looked about, laughing and bringing many of the lords and ladies to let loose an uncomfortable chuckle or two.

"You will be wise to keep your mouth shut, or I will send for Podrick to be sent back here to cut out your tongue." Sansa seethed. Tyrion jumped at the threat his wife made, surprise causing him to spill some wine over the lip of the cup he held in his hand.

"Because your husband is unable to do it himself? I do fear a man who can barely reach the table," the words were alight with teasing and pride. Tyrion turned his head to see Sansa's curved jaw set, her eyes boring into the man before the two. She was ready to rip him apart with her direwolf fangs. He had best tread lightly around the direwolf bitch.

The singer reached forward to grab hold of the empty cup and poured himself a drink. He paused as he looked into the wooden cup, picking a wine stained wooden princess floating near the top of the liquid. He held it before the two of them. "Perhaps your son was right in choosing a lady who was more near his size. If his father had learned that, you would have been spared, m'lady," the man took a sip of the wine, laughing. "Though I am not sure the whores about here would have been."

The sound of skin smashing against skin silenced the man's laughing. Or it was the fact that Sansa's hand flew across his cheek, her arm now held out toward the side of her body. The hall had quieted as they witnessed Sansa backhanding the singer. Even Tyrion found himself frozen to the image of his wife standing with her arm at an angle, her chest heaving with force and anger, her blue eyes iced with rage.

"And perhaps you should have known better than to interfere with a lady bitch like my lady wife," Tyrion finally broke the silence. Sansa still stood on her spot, her arm still held out parallel to her shoulder. She would most certainly strike again—

"Good ladies and lord, I am certain we have had enough entertainment for the evening," Stannis interrupted the scene. The singer backed away slowly, dropping the cup and the princess in the dirt before him and turning on his heels to scamper away. "While it is certainly true that the Lannister are not the most…idyllic of noble families, we cannot allow the cruelty to continue for too long or we threaten the balance between the Houses."

"My brother was not a traitor!" Sansa cried.

"That is enough, Lady Sansa," Stannis' mouth was hard as he looked down at the woman. "I was not here when your torture began, else I would have ended it much sooner. Both now and ten years ago. But both are over, and now it is time to take your seat."

"Sansa, sit," Tyrion held his hand out to her. She was still red in the cheeks with anger, her neck and chest flushed with rage. "Sansa," his voice was gentler than he remembered it being as he called his lady wife.

She looked down and saw the extended hand. She placed her palm over his, settling into the seat directly next to him, pushing the pillows toward her own seat.

"I could kill him," she whispered.

"Which one? The singer or Stannis? Because one is certainly treason and I would not recommend such course of action," Tyrion replied.

"Both,"

"Sansa, take a deep breath." Tyrion placed his hand over hers.

"I want to go home, to Casterly Rock," Sansa looked over at him with wide blue eyes, and he saw fear overtaking them. A fear he had not seen in eleven years. "Let us go, we can bear the fines for missing the wedding, the shame and the humiliation furthered."

"No, Sansa, we cannot. And we should not do such a thing to Benjen," he reasoned with her. Stannis had stepped down from the stage and was replaced with a small band of instrumentalists; a couple flutists, some men with lyres, and a harp.

"I want to go to the apartments at least, Tyrion," Sansa replied. "Please, take me away from here,"

"Let us," he said as he pushed himself from the table. His feet were a bit wobbly from the wine as he hit the ground, but he turned and kept his feet planted as he held out his hand to Sansa.

"My Lord and Lady Lannister," Stannis replied as he stood. "I understand that you have been grieved, but let all be forgiven and let us move forward into the night with better spirits. Those of forgiveness. For anger and misery are the tools of the Lord of Darkness."

"Yeah, and that darkness is long and full of terrors, we fucking get it." Tyrion replied.

"You will not be happy when R'hllor withholds his blessing for leaving such celebration without pure cause or pardon."

"He already cursed my lady wife, or did you truly miss the entire spectacle made of us?" Tyrion retorted. He looked across the tables to see Stannis standing with his jutted jaw, his blue eyes dark with annoyance. Tyrion realized he was trying the King's power, and there was nothing the Iron King despised more than disobedient subjects.

"I pardon them, father!" Shireen stood, her dress of black and silver dancing in the candlelight, half her face darkened by her scales. "They have been treated distastefully, and I did not have the courage to stand up as you did when you returned to us from your council."

"Some king, abandoning the feasting for administrative duties," Tyrion groaned.

He watched Stannis turn toward his daughter, the rigid lines on his face relaxing. His shoulder depressed as he looked back to the dwarf and his wife. "I will be the example of forgiveness and reconciliation, thank you, my wise daughter for bringing back my mind to me. I will allow you to be pardoned for the evening, Lord Tyrion, with your wife."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Sansa curtsied. "We are sorry for our own disturbance,"

"Go and pray to R'hollar, that you may find light in your heart and ways once again," the man replied, the red priestess suddenly appearing at his side. "Return to us with spirits of celebration."

"Yeah, sure," Tyrion replied. Sansa grabbed his hand and strode ahead, her head held high as she walked. But Tyrion disentangled from her grasp.

He ducked beneath the tables— _fuck my dignity, there is not much left of it—_ and reached into the dirt before him, pulling the princess from the wine saturated mud puddle, wiping it on his jerkin and sliding it into the garment's pocket before returning once more to Sansa's side to return to their apartments.

* * *

He looked at Sansa who sat on the bed with red eyes. She had returned, her eyes shedding tears as she passed through the door. Tyrion had felt a twinge in his heart as he escorted her to the bed chamber, encouraging her to sit on the bed. She stopped to pull the gown from her body, letting the heavy fabric fall to the floor and standing before him in her shift.

Tyrion sent for a spiced wine to be sent to the room to soothe her, as well as a basin of cool water. A handmaiden quickly arrived with the latter, placing the bowl on the vanity table. Tyrion took the cool cloth in hand, wringing out the water and going to Sansa's side. She held the hand she had struck the singer with in the palm of her other. Tyrion took it in hand and saw that the skin on the back was flaming red and slightly swollen.

"His face was a bit harder than you expected?" Tyrion asked. He placed the cloth on the angry welt.

"I would have hit him again if given the chance." She hung her head.

"Fuck Stannis and his intervention, I was ready to watch you tear the man apart," Tyrion smiled as he dabbed the cool rag on the skin.

"It is not funny, Tyrion." Sansa replied, looking down at him. "We could have put ourselves in greater trouble than that,"

"We could have, but we did not, my lady." He responded.

"I could not bear to hear him say the things he did about Benjen right in front of the boy," Sansa confessed, wiping at her tears with her free hand.

"I am glad you put an end to his insolence," Tyrion conceded. "I am only sorry I could do nothing myself. You were the strong one who had to protect this family."

"I do not fault you for it," Sansa spoke up as she slid from the bed onto the floor before him. "I know you were angry,"

"Too bad this bear can do nothing more than growl," Tyrion replied. He let go of her hand and returned to the basin, dunking the cloth into the cool water and squeezing out the excess. He went to Sansa once more, this time placing the rag against her face. He wiped at her eyes first, slowly wiping the tear trails away from her fair cheeks.

"And as angry as we were with Benjen, he was right," Sansa replied.

"What do you mean?" Tyrion asked. "You were right in correcting him about the toys, if anything. The demands which he made regarding—"

"We should have more children, so that he is not alone." Sansa grabbed Tyrion's wrist. More children? Was she not satisfied with the curse he had put on their first one.

"I do not think that is the wisest of ideas, my lady," Tyrion shook his head. "Be thankful for the blessing he has given you, and be content."

"Tyrion, I want more children," she looked at him. He shook his head. He had to be the one with reason on his mind. She did not want more monsters, and she certainly would not wish to die.

"I do not believe it to be a good idea, my lady," Tyrion insisted. Sansa tightened her grip on his wrist and he looked up at her with surprise.

She leaned toward him, placing her mouth on his. Her lips were sweet and warm, a sensation he had tasted only in ceremony the past six years. Not with the true intent of drinking her in and she the same with him. But she was gulping him down now, her mouth eager and heavy against his. He opened his mouth as their kiss deepened, her arms wrapping about his neck, his taking her face in hand. Her mouth was sweet with the taste of pastry, but he had always found her taste soothing and delicious. Sweet smelling Sansa was as pleasant to nibble as she was to breathe in. He kissed her harder, felt himself respond in ways he had not bothered to use in painfully long years.

And then he pulled from her, reaching for the cloth he had absentmindedly dropped to the floor, and leaving her curled on the side of her left hip all alone.

"Tyrion," she pleaded. She wanted his seed to please her, she wanted what she did not understand she could not have. He had given her a beast, the singer was right. A cute and pleasant and clever beast, but a monster all the same.

She was not in need of having another demon spring forth from her loins, threatening to rip her apart.

He did not want to lose Sansa, even if it meant that in order to keep her, he could not truly have her. Such was the way with beautiful creatures. And ugliness could never own beauty, could not touch it for long before rotting it away.

He had already blemished his wife, the way Shireen's cheek was blemished, the way that his niece's cheek was scarred. But for Sansa, the wound was deeper than skin. It was deeper than the soft curve of her cheek, the red of her lips, the bright blue shine in her big blue eyes.

No, he had started to cripple her soul. And he could not bear to kill another beauty, but what more could he do; he was the same little monster he had been from his own birth.


	4. The Feast, Day Three- Sansa

The third day of the pre-wedding feast was drawing to a close; the night outside the circle of tables and the dais was inky black with the promise of sleep, but the torches made sure that the terrors were kept at bay. Podrick had escorted Benjen to bed several hours beforehand, the boy was tired and near falling into his pie. Sansa had let him stay up past his normal hour of bed, but he was clearly not up for making it too long after; weeks of travel and heady food had his green eyes closing quickly. And the small family was left alone after the spectacle they endured the night before at the hands of the singer, making the feast an even more boring event for the young boy. He was too drowsy to even walk; Pod had taken the boy in his arms, cradling his head on his shoulder as he left the table to put the tired boy quickly to bed.

Sansa herself was growing rather tired, but she was not one to leave her husband's side at social gatherings. He was sitting next to her, drinking yet another cup of wine and muttering to himself. She had attempted to make conversation, but her tongue was heavy with worry and frustration and she could not make the words come out right. She had given up eating ten courses before, and the final course of pigeon pie was sitting before her, making her even less inclined to eat. It was a mockery of the royal wedding that was presented at the end of each wedding, a reminder of the deadly consequences of not unifying and laying aside differences. R'hllor wanted his children to gather together beneath his light, there was no need for arguing, and all murder was truly kinslaying. For whatever reason, this time the pie was not served at the end, but rather in the middle of the feast week. _Perhaps as a continued apology for the turmoil caused last night_?

"If we had pigeon pie at our wedding, I would have thrown up on it, then pissed in it, just to show my reverence to the Lord of Light," Tyrion mumbled drunkenly. Sansa looked over at him with irritation.

"I am sure you would have not," Sansa indulged his inebriated comments.

He looked up her, his face slightly puffy and his eyes dilated. "Would you not have wanted me to?"

"What sort of question is that to pose? Of course I would not have wanted you to make a fool of yourself." Sansa replied.

"You mean a fool of you?" Tyrion laughed. "Although, I did that without the pie yesterevening, did I not?"

"I do not find the need for you to be a source of amusement all the time," Sansa said, turning away from him.

"Hmm," he hummed, tipping his cup toward his mouth. Sansa did not mean to act so aggressively, it was something she did without truly thinking. She reached and grabbed the goblet, pulling it from his grip. The alcohol spilled over and pattered onto his doublet, some running down her silk skirts. "What the fuck do you think you are doing?"

"I think you've enough drink, my lord," Sansa replied, placing the cup on the table. She looked back at him, half expecting his green eyes to be filled with resentment, but an amused fascination passed his intoxicated features. He rubbed at the scar which passed across his depressed nose bridge.

"Perhaps I have," he conceded. Sansa paused as she looked down with shock at the agreeableness of her husband. "But there is still so much wine left, and I would hate for it to go to such waste." He muttered.

"Please, do not drink more," Sansa begged him. Tyrion looked at her once more with a cocked eyebrow, a frown on his small, full lips. He looked past her suddenly, and she turned to see what his gaze had taken hold of.

He seemed taller than she remembered, and his raven black hair was growing in waves around his face. His grey eyes danced with joy as a smile passed his face.

"My sister, Sansa," Jon laughed as he walked toward her with open arms. Sansa felt a grin spread wide her own face, even though she was still cross with her husband.

"I should leave you two," Tyrion finished his swivel and jumped from the table. Sansa reached out quickly to grab his arm.

"No, stay," she pleaded. Tyrion looked at the hand which wrapped about his arm, his green eyes wary as he looked up at her. She turned pink and immediately released his sleeve, her arm returning to her lap.

"I will be back later tonight, my lady, I have friends to see," he said. Sansa felt her heart sink as she knew what that meant. She could not sort through her husband's shortcomings at the moment, however, as Jon was approaching the table and settling in next to her.

He too stopped as Tyrion passed him. "Come, my good brother, come and sit and talk with Sansa and myself. I wish to apologize further for the fool's taunts last night." She heard Jon say. Tyrion glanced back at Sansa, and she met his green eyes, nodding her head to indicate that, yes, he should. Tyrion looked up at Jon and shrugged.

"I will give it some thought," Tyrion replied.

"That is all I can ask for, Lord Tyrion," Jon responded. When Tyrion left his side, Jon strode forward to Sansa with a large smile on his square face. He leaned forward and embraced her.

"Where is my nephew?" He asked with a smile.

"Technically he is your cousin, as I am, and so would Tyrion, your good cousin, I mean. Not your good brother, Your Grace," she corrected him, her cheeks flushing red, but Jon shook his head.

"I cannot ever think of you as any more distant than a sister, even if we did not quite see eye to eye," Jon assured her. Sansa looked over the man; his pale skin was lined with scars, a new one had appeared since she last saw him several years before, flicking through his left eyebrow. She reached out to run her thumb across it gently.

"It's not much, I was just cut one day by an over eager recruit; I was instructing him in the finer points of swordsmanship," Jon assured her.

"Why are you at the Wall, Jon? You should be on the throne, training to be a King. Surely Princess Shireen worries for you when you are gone. And I am sure you anger King Stannis." Sansa said.

"I like to be at the Wall during the colder months of the year, now that the long winter has retreated and left us with more agreeable portions. And do not worry for Shireen; she enjoys joining me in the journey. I do not think she cares much for the regality and attention at King's Landing. She may not be Arya, but she is not a woman of fancies and jewels, such as yourself, my beautiful little sister," Jon responded. The two sat in silence when thinking of the once spirited Arya. Sansa turned her head to look at her sister, reigned in at the side of Willas Tyrell and dressed in a gown of green and yellow. She had been changed by the war, but had not all of them?

Sansa shook her head. "It sounds as if Shireen makes you a fine lady wife. I heard she is with child?"

Jon flushed red at the question, stuttering as he shifted the subject. "Enough talk of Shireen and my boring royal life. Are things not well with the lord husband? I was certain when you took him back into your graces that you two were bound to become as close as Father and Mother. I remember at my wedding, the way you two shared kisses at the toasts. You were glowing with a bulging belly which would soon become my brilliant nephew. All thought it strange that the bear and the maiden fair were indeed sitting before us, clearly devoted and enraptured in one another." Jon smiled at her, reaching out to take her hand. "But last night, the two of you looked miserable even before the rude interruption. I am sorry I did not speak sooner, but Shireen held me back in fear of looking too much in charge. I should have ignored her; I should have followed my gut and intervened. Of that, I am truly sorry, Sansa."

"We have forgiven and have turned our back on it. It is not the first time cruel words have been said, I just wish Benjen was not subject to hear all that. He had another nightmare last night; he has not had them since the last wedding we went to where the kids locked him in a crate for several hours." Sansa placed her hand on his arm, reassuringly. "Shireen was right to hold you back; Stannis looked angry that the peace had been broken at his sanctioned event, should you have over stepped, surely you would have gotten a tongue lashing, his daughter's prized husband or not." She frowned. "As for Tyrion and myself? Things have not been right for far too long," Sansa replied. "But it is a long and boring story, and I am certain one you do not actually wish to hear."

"I have heard many long and boring stories, and only few did I regret ever engaging in." Jon assured her. Sansa shook her long auburn hair.

"It is not like that at all, Jon," she looked at her hands writhing together in her lap.

"As long as nothing is going to happen to young Ben, that there will be no mistreatment or harm done to him by his father," he placed his hand on her shoulder.

"No, no, Lord Tyrion is a good father. He adores his son, spending most nights reading to him from tomes of history. The two of them revel in the stories of kings long past and dragons of old. Dragons much more powerful than the three you have bound at the Wall."

"Their mother was slaughtered, and I think without her they lost much of their will," Jon replied. "But I am glad to hear that Lord Tyrion is a good father , even if he is not the best of husbands."

Sansa nodded her head, her eyes closing again as she fought tears. "What is it, Sansa? I know that look of distraught, and I am sure it is reserved for more serious matters than just knights who did not give you a kiss on the cheek when leaving Winterfell."

Sansa smiled at the anecdote. "I am not sure it is proper to speak with you on such matters," Sansa answered.

"I am sure I do not give a shit in regards to proper at the moment, Sansa, if there is something wrong with you," Jon answered, wrapping his arm about her shoulders. She looked over at him with glazed eyes.

"I…Tyrion was a good friend, a good lover, once. When we were reunited and we realized that we shared many thoughts, many hardships, we found that we did indeed care for one another perhaps even more strongly than mere allies. He indulged my need for understanding and I indulged his need for unpaid love. We were finding that romance sung about in songs, things I had long ago been told did not existed. And there it was, in the palm of my hand," Sansa looked over at him. "And now I am lucky if he does not leave me for the whore houses."

"He chooses whores over you, Sansa?" His cheeks burned red. Sansa felt her heart patter with worry.

"Do not worry yourself over it, Jon. We have a son, and he loves him so and I love him so. I think Tyrion blames himself, for Benjen."

"It is his fault, is it not?" Jon shrugged his shoulders. Sansa felt a spark of annoyance in her belly as Jon agreed with her husband.

"My Benjen is not an accident or a curse from the gods," Sansa corrected her brother. "I thought that there was nothing beautiful in Tyrion once, when we were forced together and he was just another Lannister to me. I was able to see past that, when we were reunited and trying to cling together for dear life as Stannis waited for us to rebel so that he could destroy us," Sansa shook her head. "I should really not be speaking of this."

"Yet you are, so please continue," she could hear the protective edge of Jon's voice, a chilling reminder of Robb.

"I saw past that; I truly understood how clever he was, how brave he was capable of being, as brave as the Starks," she smiled, but it was quickly drowned by a frown. "But I also learned how haunted he was. To be like that, to be less than a whole man. He and Bran are looked at as lords to be pitied or mocked. Our brother is exiled to the Wall, with little hope for marriage or family because of what he can no longer do with his legs, trapped only by what he can do with his mind, he is not a full lord to Stannis any longer. And if you will pardon my next words, if Shireen was not his daughter, I do not think he would see her as much a lady either." Sansa said.

"Perhaps, but to Stannis, love has blinded his eyes to the blackened scales on his daughter's cheek," Jon smiled to himself. "Even they have become less noticeable to me over time, her intelligence and her kindness erasing the forethought of her blemish."

"My son is not a boy to be pitied, he is smart and strong and brave. He will make a good ally and a great confidence someday. He is small, but he is clever and he is brave and he is one of the most wonderful lords out there, even as a child."

"Like your husband," Jon replied softly. Sansa's throat closed and she could only nod her head in agreement.

"Yes, like my husband," she answered finally.

"You are not angry with him for your son?" Jon asked.

"He is beautiful, how could I be?" Sansa shook her head vehemently. "I think he is the one angry with me, that I whelped a boy who inherited his blood. As if my blood was not strong enough to purify his. He has no interest in having more heirs, more children. I suppose I should not be sad, I should be glad we have an heir, a healthy son, but I want in my heart of hearts to have our family back."

"You are married to a Lannister, Sansa, you will never have the Starks of Winterfell back," Jon interrupted her.

"I think he could have been different, I think I could have found a good man in him if he let me in," Sansa said. "But now we are just lovers that went wrong."

The two sat in silence, Sansa burned with embarrassment and humiliation at both her situation and the information she had given Jon. She stood, brushing her skirts from her body.

"I should be on my way back to the apartments; Benjen is sleeping, and I am sure that it is near time for me to turn in for the evening, it has been a long few days, what with arriving here and the events of last night."

"You do not have to be ashamed, Sansa, that you told me," Jon looked up at her. "I will tell no one."

Sansa wanted to walk, but her feet were weak with emotion and she instead fell back into her seat, looking at Jon with eyes that burned and itched with the need to set free tears which blurred her brother-cousin's handsome face. "I am a stupid little girl, just as I always was. Wishing to recreate our family, thinking my son is capable of becoming a great lord and man like you," she shook her head. "I am married to a Lannister, you are right. And my son is a dwarf. I love him so that I forget that he will never be loved by the rest of Westeros the way I love him."

Jon reached an arm out to her once more, taking her in an embrace. "Hush, Sansa. You are not stupid. Do not think so lowly of yourself."

Sansa lay her head on her once-brother's shoulder, wrapping her arms about his back. "I just wish I could have gone back to the way it was, when I was the perfect wife for Tyrion. The wife who was going to drown out his bad blood and renew the Lannister name."

"Sansa, none of this is your fault. Benjen is a bright boy, just as you acknowledged, and for whatever reason the gods have given you him and his deformities for a reason. Bran fared well when the gods took his legs; Bran is one of the greatest Greenseers to ever live."

Sansa frowned. "I do not think my son will be a Greenseer or even a warg; he will be trapped in the looks and comments of others, and there is nothing I can do. I cannot even be assured that he will find a lady who will love him and who will want him."

"You confessed that you loved his father once," Jon corrected her. "Perhaps there is hope."

"The gods have abandoned us, Jon. Stannis is our King, our family is on the brink of death. There is nothing but grief and misery in this land." She looked up at him once more. "I wish he would perish so you could become our King, the King we really need, regardless of his Targaryen blood."

"Shireen is pregnant," Jon said.

"So the rumors are true?" Sansa asked, pushing from him to look at his face.

"Yes. And so is one more person" Jon said.

"What do you mean? Who?" Sansa shook her head. "I do not like that you are keeping secrets from me."

"You have not seen her properly because her lord husband is concerned with her indifference and its effect on her health, but Arya is with babe."

"Is that why she has been kept from my side?" Sansa asked, looking once more to her sister and seeing only the girl's back. Sansa hung her head. "I feel terrible for her, she looks absolutely miserable, being the lady she never wanted to be and having babies."

"It is what the gods wished for her. She had quite the journey on her road to revenge for Fathers' death," Jon shrugged his shoulders. "She sold her soul and was not given the sum she wanted for it."

"How long until she is to give birth? Oh, I wish to go and see her!" Sansa looked to him. "How long did you know, you were her favorite brother after all?"

"Willas told me several months ago, after they put her into confinement. She simply did what they told her, all her spirit is gone."

"I hope she can find happiness in her baby," Sansa said. "Though she did not want it."

"The maesters fear she is not going to make it through the birth; she is so thin and frail because she refuses to eat like one should. She is not the same sister we had before the war—"

"Stannis has killed more families by joining us together than the war did," Sansa sighed. "The cruel nature of this is that these people still have their bodies,"

"You are sounding like a scholar yourself," Jon replied.

"I suppose the two scholars my husband and my son are wears off on a woman," she replied.

"I should call Shireen to meet you; I know you two have never properly spoken,"

"Perhaps another time," Sansa said. She did not feel strong enough to pull up a wall around her sullen face.

"You should meet the Queen, Sansa," a voice interrupted the two. Sansa looked over to see her lord husband standing beside the two of them.

"Tyrion!" She exclaimed, surprise lining her features.

"I thought about your cousin's offer, and I accept," Tyrion replied. "I shall stay for a few moments of talk."

"I am glad to hear of it, my lord, but please do come and sit at the table of honor," Jon stood and held his hand out to Sansa. Sansa looked up at her brother-cousin, then back to Tyrion. She felt bad for refusing Jon's hand, but she instead held out her hand to her little lord husband. His green eyes widened in surprise, but he took her hand in his and she rose to her feet.

"I suppose it is only proper for a lord to assist his lady," Jon held back a smile she detected at the corner of his lips. "Let me escort you to the head table."

Sansa kept her hand in Tyrion's, even when his palm relaxed around hers. He looked up at her curiously, his head shaking though he did not break contact. They walked behind Jon, ignoring the stares and whispers focused their way. She could hear Tyrion muttering their names under his breath, his list of men that he would need to humiliate in pay for humiliating him.

The walk to the table was not long, but felt like an eternity under the gazes which blanketed the two. Sansa clung harder to Tyrion's hand, ignoring them as they followed. Jon swept his arm out as they reached the table where Shireen sat with a few ladies Sansa did not recognize, the woman standing as the company approached.

"My wife, Shireen, this is my sister, rather, cousin-sister, Lady Sansa," Shireen smiled to Sansa, and Sansa curtsied quickly, bowing her head deeply. "And Sansa's husband, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion bowed shallowly at the waist, his hand pressed to his stomach rigidly. Shireen beamed at the two with a glowing smile.

"Come, sit at my table and feast with us. I know sitting towards the back, you do not get the freshest and finest of foods. I am sorry my father saw it fit to place you so far away from us, being relatives to my lord husband," Shireen stepped forward, wrapping her arm about Jon with blue eyes glowing with pride. "I am sorry about the singer last night, as well. He was cruel to both you and your lady wife and child, Lord Tyrion. I made sure that he was escorted from the feast and not paid for his cruelty."

Sansa sensed Tyrion jolt as she addressed the apology to the half man. Sansa looked down at him; he had his eyes on Shireen, his brows crossed as if not knowing how to take the words directed at him.

"And it was cruel for all to laugh. Your child is a very pretty one; he clearly takes after his mother with his beautiful hair," Tyrion looked at Sansa, his green eyes reflecting his confusion. "Please, come and sit,"

"Thank you, Your Grace," Tyrion spoke, startling Sansa at his response to the princess' social cues.

Tyrion and Sansa took their place across from Jon and Shireen, glancing at one another as they took their seats with hesitation.

"If there is anything of your wanting, please let me know," Shireen said. "Lord Davos is my constant friend, and he would be glad to get whatever it is you desire."

The lord was certainly greying in his beard and at his temples, showing his advancing age as he sat further down the table. "Of course, Your Grace,"

"He was my student at Storm's End when I was young," Shireen explained. "And my father's trusted companion."

"The Onion Knight," Tyrion whispered. Sansa smiled at Shireen.

"Nothing compares to loyalty; Tyrion's own squire, Podrick, is one of the most faithful servants and men we know," Sansa said.

"He is the young companion to my nephew, is he not?" Jon asked. Sansa nodded his head.

"Are those lemon cakes?" Tyrion asked, pointing at a tray sitting to the left of Shireen. Shireen nodded her head eagerly.

"Yes, my lord; here, take as many as you like." She took the plate in hand and passed it forward. "The maidens will scold me for doing this myself, but I see no harm in passing a plate."

"How very humble of you, Your Grace," Sansa spoke up, surprised indeed by the woman's modesty.

"Please, Lady Sansa, call me Shireen."

"Then I insist you must call me Sansa," the woman replied. She watched Tyrion take the large plate of her favorite desserts, placing it on the table next to Sansa's elbow. Sansa eagerly took a cake in hand.

"Ah, I had nearly forgotten my sister's propensity for lemon cakes," Jon chuckled, wrapping his arm about Shireen's shoulders.

"Is it indeed your favorite?" The princess asked. "I must send several platters to your table,"

"Not too much, Your—Shireen," Sansa looked down at Tyrion. "Tyrion does not care for them very much, and while his son does enjoy them, he will not eat many."

"But if you could spare some, I insist you send them to my table for my wife's enjoyment," Tyrion replied. Sansa felt her heart flutter at the suggestion.

"How sweet of you to ask, Lord Tyrion; I will indeed have several trays sent tomorrow to your table. Perhaps I can even have father reseat you where some of the Tyrells sit. Perhaps even near the men of the Night's Watch? Near your brother Bran?"

"Where does Rickon sit?" Sansa asked.

"Next to us," Jon replied. "He is the lone wolf of House Stark,"

"There are only three Lannisters, we really should see if father would reseat them," Shireen replied. "You and Tyrion would enjoy being so close. The singers are heard better, and the mummers are truly spectacular if you are given the chance to really see and hear them. With the noise of the tables between the stage and you, it must be hard to enjoy."

"It is not so bad sitting toward the back," Tyrion replied. "Benjen accompanies us to the feast until his bed hour, so he is usually playing with small figurines while others eat. He can be loud and obnoxious, as you heard last night."

"I barely did hear much of what happened," Shireen confessed.

"There is no need to bring it up anyways, right, my love?" Jon asked. The sentimental name caused Sansa to pause as she looked at her brother-cousin gaze down at his wife with his grey eyes. If she was not mistaken, she could see a wave of admiration and connection flood down on the princess from Jon. Perhaps Jon had moved past duty when it came to his little marred wife.

"Besides, I do love playing with the little ones. I should get to know my…nephew-cousin?...better anyways. He will have his own cousin in a short time," Shireen removed her hand from the table and slipped it underneath, an indication she was cradling her belly.

"Congratulations, Your Grace," Tyrion replied.

"Shireen, I insist, Lord Tyrion." She smiled down at him. "We are family; and I am not as strict and stern as my father."

"Do not believe that she is completely benign; she knows how to keep the servants and the maesters busy with her commands and expectations for the household." Jon laughed. "I think she even has some of the Night's Watch whipped into shape."

"I should be kinder to them, especially since you were released from your vows so that you could marry me," Shireen replied.

"I think that has more to do with your father and gold," Tyron replied, taking the cup of wine before him.

"Tyrion," Sansa scolded him.

"I am sure you are not wrong, Lord Tyrion," Shireen let out a little giggle.

"Do you have names for the child selected yet?" Sansa asked.

"Eddard, if it is a boy," Shireen responded. "I wanted Jon to have the privilege to name our first son, and he wished for that name."

"I thought Sansa would most like name her child that before I did, but it seems she wanted to pay tribute to our mysterious Uncle Benjen instead."

"Benjen is a very nice name," Sansa insisted.

"I would not have let our son run about with a name like Eddard, not with the way he is, do not worry yourself about that, Your Grace." Tyrion's voice was thickened with wine once again.

"What do you mean?" Shireen asked, her head tilted.

"I think my good brother is a bit drunk, my lady. He is speaking of things he truly does not mean." Jon assured her, placing a hand on hers.

Sansa watched, feeling the blood seep from her cheeks, making them cold. "I mean what I said," Tyrion replied. "The name of your father on a dwarf such as myself? I would not mock my lady wife in such a way," Tyrion snorted.

"He seems like such a sweet boy, my lord, I am sure you do not mean to—" Shireen looked taken aback as she struggled with words.

"I know what he is, clear as I know what I am." Tyrion replied. "Curses from the gods, kept from ever being men. I am sure my lady wife can tell you all about the despicable childish things I have done, things that a _man_ would not do," Tyrion was clearly drunk.

"Tyrion," Sansa reached out, laying a hand on his arm. He looked up at her, his eyes half closed.

"Sansa," he responded, finally jumping from the bench. But his balance was off due to his intoxication and he stumbled forward, falling onto his face in the dust. Several men around the table were watching and let out belly deep laughs. Sansa turned quickly, stepping away from the bench to offer her hand in assistance. Tyrion pushed her away.

"Leave me the fuck alone." He groaned. Sansa felt the warmth that was growing in her heart leave as she watched him lurch off away from the group. "This was a bad fuckin' idea, in the first place. To bring my son here as entertainment for you bastards. For fuckin' talking to the future king and queen. I wish the gods would strike me dead now!" He muttered as he wandered away from the table.

"Is he alright?" Shireen asked when Sansa turned back to the table.

"Yes, his pride was just damaged a bit, I am sure he'll recover," Sansa answered.

"Where is her off to?" The princess asked. Sansa glanced over to Jon, who smiled ironically. He shook his head.

"Just to sleep, he was drunk, like I said. Having a bit too much fun at the feasts with his wife," Jon wrapped his arm about his wife again.

"I am feeling a bit sleepy myself," Sansa admitted.

"The hour has grown late," Shireen nodded her head. "I am sorry to see you leave, though, dear sister. Please come back and visit our table whenever you are able during the feast. And bring your son!" Shireen responded.

"I will, Your Grace," Sansa stood, curtsying before leaving.

She heard footsteps follow her on the gravel behind, prompting her to turn quickly. It was Jon, his face grim.

"Do you need someone to help you back to your chambers? It is rather late and I am sure Tyrion is not the only drunk out there tonight."

"They'll be with him, then, in the brothels," Sansa replied.

"I am sorry, Sansa," Jon replied. "If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please tell me. You will only need to endure a lunch feast tomorrow. We are near the wedding day and you will be able to return home to Casterly Rock afterwards."

"Jon may I say something which makes little sense, but I can just feel it in my gut?" Sansa paused in her turning to leave once more.

"Yes," he nodded his head. "Yes, of course, Sansa,"

"Tyrion has been warm with me as of late, like the mention of the lemon cakes. But as soon as he starts to make me hope that there can be something rekindled between us again—he goes and breaks my heart," she found she was fighting tears again, her voice breaking as she finished her statement. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down, to swallow the tears. A tactic she had learned so long ago in King's Landing, when she was separated from her brother-cousin. When she was forced to marry someone she wanted to stay with now. "I feel like this may be the last bit of heat he had left to break through the ice. If the fire goes out, there will no way for us to stay warm."

Jon stood looking at her for a moment, his mouth curved into a frown. He did make a move to comfort her, for which she was glad. She did not want to touch anyone right now, did not want to be held.

"Do not give up hope," he said. "I thought Shireen would never become dear to me, and she has."

"And we had our season, brother," Sansa replied. "But the long winter has struck us, and it may stay forever."

Jon sighed audibly, his shoulders and chest rising before deflating. He understood the weight on her shoulders, but it seemed even he did not know how to release it. "Go, dear sister, and rest. I will pray that the gods will perhaps save you in this."

"Thank you," Sansa answered. Jon took her head in both of his hands and kissed the crown of her auburn hair.

"Sleep well, my dear sister,"

"And you, my brother."

Sansa did not wait for an escort back to her apartments, nor would she allow Jon to walk with her. She went by herself, stealing through the black hallways and doing her best not to stumble in the darkness. _For the night is dark and full of terrors,_ she mused to herself. _But I am married to one of the biggest monsters feared in Westeros, and I had his monster child. Perhaps I am a monster myself. Perhaps I am a direwolf bitch punished by the gods for taking the lion's skin_. She pondered. No, she did not think the gods would be so cruel to her mercy. She had to think as Jon did, that the gods intended more for her than she even expected.

She crept into the room quietly, too tired to do more than shed her dress and toss it to the floor. A handmaiden would take care of it in the morning. She slipped across the stone floor to the bed chamber where the large bed lay. She shivered in her silk shift, the cool walls of the stone chilling her skin. As she neared the bed she could hear a small noise on the sheets.

She squinted as she peered closer, seeing if perhaps Benjen was joining her for the night. It was a small body in her bed, but the gargoyle scar across the face revealed that the sleeper was Tyrion. A wave of peace swept through her heart as she rejoiced in the fact that her husband was here and not in the brothels of Dorne. She was not sure why she was so happy with the presence of her husband, a man she barely knew how to speak with anymore, but the simple fact was that she wished to kiss him deeply.

She took to crawling onto the mattress gently beside him. He rocked slowly into the impression her body made as she neared him; he rolled over and faced her, his eyes still closed in sleep. Sansa sank into the mattress, getting as close to him as she dared, her ear on the pillow, her face before his.

She felt her body relax on the downy matt and she was quickly asleep, her breaths falling into sync with Tyrion's.


	5. At Night, Day Four - Tyrion

The sounds of giggles and moans could be heard behind the partitions as Tyrion stared into his near empty cup. His head was thick and swimming, his usual state of drunkenness. He had done his best to get as pissed as he could at the table this afternoon at the feast. He was supposed to be eating his fill so they could fast night and eat sparingly in the morning so that the wedding feast would be a time of joyous celebration and lustful eating.

Sansa had done her best to eat as much as she could, and she had encouraged Benjen to do the same. Tyrion knew that Benjen would only eat so much, what with his heart troubling him so. He had heard the boy question Sansa earlier that morning when Tyrion was pretending to be asleep on the bed, why so many people made fun of him. Why Sansa had called him her bravest, strongest, boy when he was little and weak? Tyrion wanted to turn to Sansa, to tell her that she should never have filled his head with such fantasies. _I was called the Giant of Lannister once, by a whore who fucked me over. And I was once great to you, wife. Now look at me, small and insignificant in the court. Kept alive because you and I are feasting off of hatred toward one another instead of building a House which would threaten the inheritance or heirs of Stannis Baratheon._

Stannis Baratheon. A man Tyrion found he wanted dead more than his deceased nephew. At least his nephew had possessed goose wits and was more dangerous because of his childish temper than destructive with his cunning knowledge of inheritance and family ties. Stannis was doing all he could to undermine any strengths the territories and Houses had. _He forgets that the North cannot be controlled._ Tyrion mused.

“You do not look pleasured, m’lord,” A dark skinned and dark eyed woman sauntered over to him. She was long limbed, her torso tight and her breasts large and welcoming. She was a beautiful woman; one Tyrion could not help but look at as he took another sip of his cup.

“Are you suggesting you would like to change my state?” Tyrion asked.

“I will do anything m’lord pleases,” she purred as she bent in front of him, the beads which barely covered her dark nipples leaned toward him and she wrapped her fingers among the cords suggestively. She smiled, her free hand reaching forth to touch his thigh. Tyrion’s cock should be at attention, should be yearning for this fuck that would certainly pleasure him, but the twisting of the gold chains in front of him only made him think of Shae.

“Have a glass of wine,” Tyrion extended his hand toward the glass and pitcher beside him.

“Would that please m’lord?” She asked.

“Very much so,” he said.

He watched as she poured herself a glass, pushing his hand aside to settle into his lap. She leaned forward, her breath hot against his cheek. “I heard you are the best lover in all the kingdoms.”

“Oh, you have?” Tyrion laughed. “I am sure you did not hear it from my lady wife.”

“No, m’lord,” the woman’s face darkened in the candlelight. “I learned it from the ladies who know how to enjoy the true pleasures of the flesh.

Tyrion looked up into the woman’s dark eyes bitterly. To suggest that Sansa was incapable of understanding, much less enjoying when her flesh was touched and kissed and fucked, was not to truly know his lady wife. But he reminded himself that this was a whore. She was a liar just like Sansa was; she pretended she wanted his cock just as Sansa pretended she wanted his friendship. All of it was a lie in the end.

“I am not much in the mood for fucking right now,” he replied.

“Is there anything I can do to help m’lord change his mind?” She asked, blinking her eyes suggestively.

“Would you like to hear a story?” Tyrion asked.

“I do love stories,” the whore conceded, running her hand down his chest. He could feel her hand rest on his crotch, but he paid the squeeze no mind.

“Once drunken men in brothels spoke truths they should not spill before climbing beneath silken sheets,” Tyrion replied. “And one of the rumors spoken is that a brave young wolf, by the name of Rickon, was going to be convinced by a tyrant king to give an oath to the Knight’s Watch, that he would give up woman and land and physical comfort to fight for the preservation of the kingdom he had come to love so much,” Tyrion mused.

“Oh?” The whore was quickly losing her interest.

“This means that the castle he owns would be bequeathed to the next heir—of course that heir would be the good son of the tyrant king, the man who married his daughter. The sister of Rickon, the beautiful and graceful she-wolf, would be left with nothing.”

“This is not much of a story,” The girl pushed herself from his lap. She knelt before him, her hands creeping up his leg to reach for the ties of his breeches. “Let me tell you a story, but I will have to use my mouth to tell your cock that story.”

“I think that is enough for now,” Tyrion replied. He reached into his doublet pocket and flipped her a gold coin. The girl scrambled for it, and looked at the man with a shadowed scowl of disgust.

“Sansa should get that fucking castle,” Tyrion muttered into his cup.

How Sansa had bloomed at this wedding. She was courteous and warm, but she did not let her lady like shield keep her from guarding their song. She had impressively smacked the young singer a few days beforehand, an act which Tyrion still thought of because it gave him much amusement.

She had not been pleasured in years. Here he was, sitting in a brothel, and she was cold and unused in their bed at home. She was probably crying. She would never tell him, of course she would not want him to feel bad, but he could the shining trail marks tears cut down her long cheeks in the candlelight as she slept.

She wanted another heir, she wanted another boy. Tyrion looked down into his cup once more. “I shall finish the story, old friend.” He mused.

“You see, the king thought he was smart, getting the heir to give up Winterfell, but the North was to never be tamed. You see, these same men who say what the king wishes to do with that heir, well, the Northern men have a plan of their own. They are going to pull the Stark boy out from under the ‘guardianship’ the King has placed over him, and they will marry that boy to a Northern girl. Together the two will fight to take the North back, they will build an army as they reignite their culture, and they will take back what is theirs.”

He spun the drink in his hand. “But what if the Westernlands were to do the same? What if that lord was smart enough to take his Northern wife and build the Houses about him, and give the Northern rebellion alliances?”

_That would make Sansa happy. And my son, maybe as a favour to their Northern cousin they will give my son some kind of honour. They will let him keep Casterly Rock, truly. They will teach their children not to mock their cousin, for he is the great fearless leader of the Westernlands, the keeper of Lannisport._

Tyrion smiled at the thought. He could become great, he could give Benjen something to strive for. They might forget that their cousin was a deformed, twisted little dwarf if his mother was a great direwolf bitch. Benjen would be spoken in the same affectionate tones which graced Sansa’s name in the Northern halls.

And Tyrion would be forgotten, and he would pray to the gods that perhaps Benjen would stay unmarried. A second son could take over the lands?

Tyrion scrambled from his chair, his gate swaying as he stumbled toward the exit of the room. He was stopped by an intimidating man dressed in middle class Dornish garb, his arms crossed before his great chest. The girl who was offering to relieve Tyrion of his frustration with her mouth stood behind him with a smirk.

“What can I do for you?” Tyrion asked, his tongue thick with drink.

“I should be the one who asks such questions,” the man’s voice was heavy with accent. “You come here and you drink my wine. But you do not fuck my girls. You do not pay to use their cunts. You barely pay for the wine which you fill your belly with.”

“Your girls are not appealing,” Tyrion replied, trying to step past the man.

“My girls are all trained in the mysterious art of Lys love making. There is a reason most of the wealthy men who sat about you at the tables are here and are moaning under the fingers of my workers,” he growled. “You will pay for a whore, Imp, or you shall be forcefully removed.”

“I was just leaving anyways,” Tyrion replied.

“He owes me more gold!” The girl whined. “I sat and listened to his story and he did not even use me for my services. I could have pleasured several men in that time.”

“You would have been the quickest fucker I have ever known.” Tyrion scoffed. “Your services would not be worth shit if you got a man off that quickly. Trained in the arts of Lys love making? That is nothing but horse shit.”

“Are you insulting my girls?” The man leaned down.

“My lady wife could fuck better than most of these old hags,” Tyrion laughed. “And she’s had none but my sorry cock for her training.”

He was saying too much, his brain was screaming for him to stop. But the alcohol encouraged him to keep talking. He was taking pleasure in the colour this man was growing as he did his best to remain composed before the lord.

“You know, Imp, that you may be a lord, but no man would defend your honour if I were to humiliate you,” the man shook his head. “And you would not even have the funds to pay me back. If you did, men would not publically mock your monstrosity of an offspring.”

Tyrion did not think of the next action he performed. He merely did it. The cup he held in his hand, heavy and gold laced, soon left his palm and traveled upward through the air to strike the man before him sharply on the cheek. The man let out a groan as he held his face, glaring down at Tyrion.

“You will regret that, half man,” the man groaned.

And Tyrion knew he would.

 

* * *

 

His shoulder was sore from landing on the hard ground. He rubbed it gently as he stumbled up the stairs toward the apartments Sansa and he had been granted. He could not wait until he was back home among the safety of Casterly Rock, where he would avoid the stares that the servant girls sent him as they quietly slipped down past him in the dark. _At least I have never thought once about entertaining a girl in my apartments with my wife in another room_ , Tyrion sneered at one particularly brave maiden who skirted very obviously around him, as if her skirts swishing against him arm would be equivalent to him fucking her.

Tyrion rubbed his face as he finally reached the landing before the main entrance of the rooms. No guards were outside the Lannister’s front door, to keep precious watch on the once illustrious lady of Winterfell, the believed to be sole heir when she had been married to the gargoyle of man who was Tywin’s son. Tyrion spat on the ground before pushing in the front door, his drunken mind returning his grim thoughts to that of his long dead patriarch; a memory he would like to soon forget.

While there was no watch outside the door, Tyrion had upset a dozing Podrick who sat vigilantly with a small sword at his side. The boy stumbled to the floor, losing his balance from his precarious perching on the small stool. Tyrion began to laugh.

“Not much of a threat tripping all over your shoes, Pod,” Tyrion replied. “Just be glad it’s your piss drunk lord and not some brave knight with a desire to take my wife or steal my gold.”

“No, m’lord,” Podrick stood, his limbs still shaking in shock as he looked down at his master. “I was keeping careful watch, I promise. Else I would be m’young lord’s room.”

“Do not piss yourself over it, Pod,” Tyrion shook his head. “I am back in the dwellings graciously granted us,” Though even Tyrion could hear that his voice inflected anything but gratitude, “and be sure my son stays in his bed for the night. There is no need for him to be running to our chambers; night terror or none, he is to stay in his room.”

“M’lord?” Podrick’s dark eyes met Tyrion’s, widened ever so slightly in the dark.

“I just wish to have a talk with my lady wife, is that not permitted?” Tyrion asked. “Not that I see anything occurring between myself and my lady wife being any of your concern.”

“Yes m’lord,” Podrick bowed. He made a move to the left, but Tyrion could see the hesitation in his step before he turned back to face the dwarf. “It is just that—“

“Podrick,” Tyrion’s voice was lined with annoyance.

“It is just that you are a bit drunk, m’lord. And Lady Sansa is a good lady,” Podrick’s cheeks darkened in the dim lighting.

“I know what my lady wife is and is not. And I know that you are my servant, Podrick. Go and do as you are told.” Tyrion scratched at his nose scar as his frustration grew with his squire.

“Yes, m’lord.” Podrick scurried off through the doorway and up the inner stairs to Benjen’s room.

Tyrion walked straight ahead and through the modest foyer to the bed chamber beyond. The doors to the balcony were opened and a light breeze blew the silk curtains which billowed under the force. The moonlight streamed through the fabric, softly lighting the bed where Sansa’s small form could be seen sleeping. Her chest was rising and falling under the small Dornish sleeping shift. She was covered with only a sheet which lay no higher than her belly. She was serene and beautiful in her state of unconsciousness.

Tyrion acknowledged for the first time in years how badly he wanted her.

But he would need to keep denying himself her body. Besides, she would never want him. She would never want him because she would never believe that he had not taken any whores in his visits to the brothels. It was a place to get drunk where Benjen would not ever see him pissed and blacked out. Tyrion paid the whores, of course, but he could not bring himself to fuck any of them. He had tried when he first began to visit the whore’s houses, but when he thought of Sansa and Benjen, what he had given Sansa as a son, he could not bring himself to become stiff in order to perform any sort of sexual act. So the whore houses became an extension of his solar; a place he could escape what the damage he had caused.

Sansa stirred once more, her shoulder dipping as she moved to her side, her face turning away from the moonlight as she curled in on herself.

He wanted her. He wanted her so badly and the wine in his body was defying his rationale. _What if she conceived? What if I fuck her and she is with child again? Shall I kill my lady wife this time with my demonic seed?_

Tyrion could feel himself harden under his breeches, despite his spinning mind. He would be sure that she was served moon’s tea tomorrow. She would lose whatever baby they had accidentally sparked to life. But he would have to keep it a secret; she would never take it willingly.

With his mind set on his plan, Tyrion groped at his hardening member as he approached the bed. He quickly clambered atop the mattress and made his way to his lady wife, kissing her neck fiercely. She awoke gracefully, turning to look at him, her eyes opening slowly as she looked up at him.

“Tyrion?” Her soft voice filled with confusion.

“Spread your legs,” Tyrion replied. She sat up, looking at him with crossed eyebrows.

“What is going on?”

“I said, spread your legs,” It was the drink talking. Tyrion was once a good lover to her, kind and considerate. He was sure that she was comfortable and happy before even touching her. The alcohol in him wanted nothing more than a woman around his cock.

“Tyrion,” her head tilted as she met his eyes. “You are quite drunk, my lord.”

“And in want to fuck you,”

“My lord,” she placed a hand on her chest. Tyrion stood beside her and pulled his breeches and small clothes from his stunted legs. He wanted to fuck her like a whore, but she was not one, she would not tantalize him by pulling his clothing from his legs slowly and with a wicked smile.

Tyrion pulled the sheet from her body, her long legs bared and evident under the shorter shift she had been given as a present for making an appearance at the wedding. Tyrion looked at her, watching her blue eyes dart from his face to his hard cock between his legs.

“What has—what happened, Tyrion? We can talk about this, we can…we can _fix this_.” She answered, but she parted her legs nevertheless. Tyrion stepped between them, sinking to his knees. She grabbed hold of his jerkin, causing him to wince at the pressure put against his bruised shoulder. “Talk to me,” she murmured, releasing her grip and smoothing the fabric beneath her flat palm.

“I do not want to talk,” Tyrion answered her, roughly pulling the jerkin and under-tunic from his body. Fully nude now, he leaned forward, placing a messy drunk kiss on her mouth. She remained frozen despite the affection, her hands tentatively dancing about his shoulders.

When he kissed her again, she responded back, her mouth opening and her hands entwining in his curly messy blonde hair.

“Please, I just want to be sure you are not hurt,” she insisted when he let go of her mouth. He looked up into her eyes and saw that she meant far beyond his physical state.

“I did not fuck a whore,” he answered.

“Oh,” Sansa replied.

“I was tossed out the brothel,” Tyrion replied. Her eyes widened as she took his face in her hands.

“Are you injured? Do you need a maester?” Her voice was flooded with worry as she ran her thumb along his cheeks. Tyrion pushed her hands away from his face, pushing her back.

“I need to fuck,” he insisted. Why was this so hard? He could push her back and dive into her cunt. Her legs were spread prettily and obediently before him.

He looked from her womanhood back to her face where her blue eyes were a soft grey in the lighting, washing over him. A small pout was on her lips. “Fine, my lord,”

Tyrion smiled and placed a hand on his manhood, giving the slightly softening member encouragement to stand fully once more. He was about to plunge into her, to begin fucking her senselessly, when she rocked forward. Tyrion went to push her back, but she slapped his hand away.

“Let me make this more enjoyable for my lord,” she insisted. She took ahold of the hem of her shift and he watched as she pulled the garment over her hips, past her round stomach, and over her head. Her tits sat before him, their nipples hardening in the night air. He groaned with pleasure as he closed the distance between their bodies and took to kissing and suckling on her beautiful breasts. The last memory he had of caressing her mounds so intimately was over six years ago, and the slightly salty taste of her skin was making him want to burst.

So he pushed her legs further apart and guided his manhood between them.

He was surprised to find she was wetter than he would have expected. After all, he never asked her if she was in want of this. But, oh gods, her cunt was warm and wet and a needed sensation against his cock. He began to thrust in and out of her, continuously kissing her breasts.

His movement became more furious, his hips slapping loudly against her buttocks and legs, filling the night air and combining with his own grunts. Sansa would let forth an occasional gasp, sometimes a moan, but he was not sure if they were in pain or ecstasy. He did not care. He began to slam his body into hers harder, backing away from her breasts to hold onto her hips as he forced himself in and out.

He dared to look up at Sansa, almost afraid to see the agony and fear that was on his lady wife’s face. He could not stop, no, the feeling was too grand and powerful for him to discontinue before his end.

Her head was back in the pillows, her back arched slightly as she tilted her body so he could more easily gain access to her body. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open slightly as she let out another moan. He watched as a single tear slipped down her ivory lit cheek. The sight causing him to push even harder in and out of her, a pace he did not even think he was capable of maintaining for long.

He soon met his end, pushing into her as his body let go of his seed. He thrust a few more times into her body before he pulled completely from her depths.

“Sansa,” his voice was rough. She opened her eyes slightly.

A few more tears had streaked down her high cheeks. What had he done? She was more miserable than he had left her that afternoon. Tyrion tried to hide his panic as he leaned forward to kiss the dip of her hips.

He then took his stubby fingers and sought out the once familiar crevices and bumps of his lady wife’s womanhood. His fingertips soon became slick with her wetness and his seed, and his thumb found the small mound at the top of her lady parts. He began to massage the hill gently.

Sansa let out a small moan, and Tyrion tried to remember all the touches that had once made her buck under his touch when the two would take entire afternoons to love one another’s bodies. He had learned how to make her writhe and gasp; to scream his name with his touches, whether by cock or fingers; she even had a time or two when great floods of water came from her woman hood and she had let out a shaky groan. She had been a lady of wonder in the bed; she had once been better than any whore he had known with his body, he had spoken truly in the brothel. He was in love with his wife once and fucking meant more than just two bodies slapping into one another to cause him to shudder with pleasure and her to cry out his name. Fucking her once had been an act of…trust, security, honor, respect…love.

And then he had fucked her over by ruining her body with a boy who was a difficult birth, a boy who turned out to be the physical monster his father was.

Tyrion heard Sansa’s breaths quicken, and she let out a whine as her legs clenched about his hand. Her body was spasming as she reached down in an mindless grasp for him. The feel of his wife clenching beneath his hand and her curling towards him, his name on her breath, caused him to harden.

He took her leg in hand, placing the calf over his shoulder as he moved closer to dive into her quivering womanhood once more. She let out a groan, her hands grasping for the sheets. Tyrion began to thrust forcefully in and out of her, his hands gripping her leg thrown over his shoulder. When he felt himself nearing his end once more, he let go with one hand to encourage her small hill to another finish.

“Tyrion!” she cried as her body twitched, her fingers entwined in sheets. Tyrion’s hips slapped against her leg as he pushed himself deeply into her body, once more releasing his seed into her womb. He groaned as he climaxed, letting go of her leg as he gripped her hips.

She was watching him as he pulled from between her legs. He looked back at her, his slick cock deflating in the cool night air.

The two held one another frozen in a gaze, her eyes soft and reflective in the moonlight. He realized there were tears in her eyes.

“Tyrion,” she pushed herself to sit before him.

“You should drink moon tea with your breaking of fast, my lady,” his eye line fell to her breasts, where her nipples were still hard. He reached out to grab hold of one, flicking the tip lightly.

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa took hold of his hand, pushing him away from her tits.

“Sansa,” she looked back at him and she saw the hurt in her face. What had he truly done to her now?

“Yes, my lord?”

Tyrion leaned forward to place a kiss on her mouth. Sansa kissed him back again, this time more weakly. He sighed when he pulled away from her. He needed to create space; he couldn’t bear to sleep beside her.

So he pushed himself further away, crawling across the mattress to the end of the bed, and then jumping to the floor.

A chaise was positioned across the room with a thin blanket folded atop the cushions. Tyrion quickly made his way across the room, his eyes growing heavy with wine and fucking. He passed out on the furniture before he could even drape the blanket over his body.

He awoke a short time later to find that the blanket had been placed over his small naked body. It was not the warmth which had stirred his deep sleep, nor the intense burning in his shoulder caused by being tossed forcefully from the brothel the night before. It was a soft sound, but he could not be mistaken, that what had awaken was the stifled sniffles of Sansa’s sobbing.

 


	6. The Wedding, Day Five- Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's been too long, my kind readers, since I have updated this. So I am posting an extra long chapter today. Also, this fict is actually, officially, fully written, so there will be weekly postings for the next three weeks!! This chapter is super intense, and there is some blood and killing. I went out on a limb, as well, and it gets kind of crazy, so if you want to leave some critiques, bear that in mind. I totally accept them, but be gentle!! If you can leave any feedback, as always, I will appreciate it!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this! ~ Lydia

Her head was pounding as the bright morning sun beat down upon the weary pair. She held her cup in hand as she looked out to the gardens, her arm too heavy to bring the liquid to her mouth. Benjen's cries of excitement sounded from the windows above as Podrick could be heard trying to chase the young boy down in order to bathe and dress him for the breaking of fast and wedding.

Tyrion let out a small groan next to her, causing her to look up at him. His nose was wrinkled as he blinked quickly—nursing a headache of his own, no doubt.

"You should drink before the breaking of fast, Sansa," Tyrion muttered. "You look deathly pale."

"I do not trust the drink you give me," Sansa replied, placing the cup on the table with a sharp _smack_. She looked back over at Tyrion, the anger in her belly was rising.

"It is merely water, my lady; there is no need to jump to irrational conclusions." Tyrion looked at her over the lip of his own goblet as he drank deeply.

Sansa set her jaw, dropping her gaze from her husband to her hands. "It is not fair,"

"Life is not fair, did we not tell our own son that just a day or so ago," her husband mused. Sansa wanted to reach across the table and smack the Imp as she had smacked the fool.

"My statement remains; it is not fair," Sansa looked up at Tyrion, turning her body back to the table, facing him head on. She was squaring off for a sparring of words as a young knight prepped himself for a clash of swords. "You do not get to decide what I am going to do, Tyrion. Not this time."

"Sansa," Tyrion sighed.

"Do not patronize me, Tyrion Lannister," Sansa stood, glaring down at her husband as she placed her napkin on the face of the table between them. "I am not a stupid little girl who needs your protection. If anything, I need protection _from you_!"

She immediately regretted it. She did not truly mean the words she had said to him, that she feared him, that he was some kind of threat to her personhood. She cleared her throat. "I am sorry, my lord, I did not mean what I said."

"No, Sansa, you meant every word. If I am such a danger to you, I will be on my way." Tyrion's chair scraped against the stone as he pushed himself from his chair, grabbing his wine cup in hand when he had slid to the ground.

"You will not," Sansa turned quickly to close the distance between her and the balcony doors. Her height and closeness granted her the victor and she shut the exit with a firm slam of the doors. She turned to place her back against the wood, her hands twisted behind her back to keep a firm hold on the handles.

"Now you are acting like a silly, stupid little girl," Tyrion stood before her, his hard jaw set in irritation. "Move aside, Sansa, and let me pass to begin this wretched day so that it is over more quickly for the both of us and we can once more return to Casterly Rock." He had been looking straight ahead, his sight line at her heaving chest, but his next line caused his eyes to flicker upwards, the poison of his daggered words. "As you wished."

"No," Sansa was relieved that her hands were wrapped about the handles behind her back; her shaking could be concealed for the moment.

"Sansa, I do not have the time or patience for games." His voice was tense.

"Nor do I," she replied, biting her lip to keep it from trembling as she held her head high.

"Sansa!" Tyrion stepped toward her. She pressed herself against the doors, her limbs now trembling as her husband advanced closer. _He is your little lord husband, Sansa. He could not hurt you. In this match you could escape the abuse with a simple push._ But she could never bring herself to do that to him, to humiliate him further.

"No, I will _not_!" Her voice cracked into a sob, her legs threatening to give out from under her. "Why do you hate me so, Tyrion? Why do you wish to have nothing to do with me? To…to… _use me like a common whore_? What have I done to earn your contempt, tell me so that I may pay me debts! I took on your sigil, so I take on your motto."

She was trying her best to stay strong, to reason with him with a clear head and a stoic demeanor, but it was all crashing before her as the tears began to stream down her cheeks. She thought she had cried all that she had left when he had left her the night before after using her. Her woman parts ached near as much as they had when she had first given her maidenhead to him, no doubt from nearly seven years of disuse.

"I am _sorry_ , Tyrion," Her eyes were shut tight, her limbs continued to quake against her command, and she wanted desperately to crumple before him. He had been eating her away slowly for years and her energy was sapped, she could no longer carry on like this. Even for Benjen.

She felt a tug at her skirts, an old familiar gesture of him wrapping his hands in her clothing as she stood before him. He had not touched her like this since before she was pregnant, and the presence caused her to open her eyes.

Tyrion was looking up at her, shaking his head. She could see the glassiness in his gaze, his green eyes moist with the need to weep. _How much have we buried inside?_ She wondered as she sank to her knees before him. Her body still a barricade in case he changed his mind, in the chance that he ran from her in her time of need.

"Sansa," he pulled her head to his chest, his thick fingers winding in her auburn hair, his cheek pressed to the crown of her head. "Sansa, I do not hate you. I could never hate you," he placed a kiss into her hair. She wrapped her arms around his torso, pulling him closer to her. Pressing her cheek into his chest she let out a sob, let loose all sense of decorum she had left.

"Why did you do what you did last night? Why?" She cried as she clutched him.

"Sansa…I…I have no answer which will suffice your question. None that will keep me in your graces. I was a drunk, I was angry, I had a whore itching for my coins and touching me in ways I had forgotten."

She froze, her ear was pressed snuggly against him so that she could hear his quickening heartbeat. He was afraid—or nervous—because of what he had done. Her head rose from its resting place, she looked up into his face.

"Why did you ever stop coming to me, to touch you in ways you had forgotten? _Why did you abandon me when I needed you most?_ " The question was the arrow which struck him deeply, and he looked away from her, his grip less firm. _No, please do not abandon me now!_ She wanted to scream. But it would only assure that his hands left her body and she would be left to sit in the cold breezes of the morning unprotected.

"Sansa, what I did to you…was _inexcusable_." He answered.

"Do you think I loathe our son so? Do you think that I see him as anything less than a child I wish to love?" She begged him. Tyrion shook his head.

"Of course not, because you are a mother and you love him fiercely. But it has blinded you to our son—you forget that he is not…he will never be a true man, Sansa." He face was set with a grimace.

"I am not Joanna," she murmured. "I did not leave my son on this earth. And as I am not Joanna, so you are not Tywin Lannister. You are not cold and cruel to your child, expecting only duty and giving only distant approval."

"Sansa, you cannot understand what he is going through," Tyrion shook his head, he was trying to pull from her, but her grip was too strong.

"Help me to, Tyrion. I do not want your angry glances of disapproval, and I do not want to be kept from you," she insisted. "I am tired of quiet halls and cold beds."

"Sansa, we are a Stark and a Lannister, this was never supposed to be a joyous union. This was cursed by the gods from the start. Do you not see that our son is a manifestation of this?" He cried.

"He will hear you, Tyrion, if you shout louder," Sansa wanted to shake him as if he were a small boy in need of discipline. "And I do not see our healthy young boy as a curse to anything. I do not see my brother, Bran, as a curse to the Stark House, and he cannot even walk. I see my son as no different."

"Sansa," Tyrion shook his head. "I wish that you were not the naïve little girl I married when she was a scared thirteen year old," Tyrion groaned.

"I am no longer thirteen, and I am not naïve. If you think that being groomed under the hand of Petyr Baelish left me naïve, you are mistaken." She hated speaking of her time with Littlefinger. She hated to remember the way he looked at her as a raven waited for a wounded predator, in the high branches, following until the creature died and then it would devour its flesh. Lord Baelish had wanted to devour Sansa, wanted to pull her apart when she had given into him.

"Do not make me do it," Sansa closed her eyes. Tyrion's arms were about her, strong and gently as he stroked her cheek.

"Sansa, I am not Littlefinger," he kissed the crown of her head once more.

"Then do not make me do it," Sansa said.

"What is it I am to make you do?" He asked.

"Do not serve me moon tea," she replied.

"Sansa…" Tyrion began.

"You do not understand, Tyrion, because you do not listen to me." Sansa clutched him. "I want to have your children; I want to give my son the brothers and sisters he yearns for, because I want them. I want to sleep with you as we have in the past; I want to wake with smiles. When I was thirteen I had to leave behind a life I took for granted because of the War. Do not make me suffer in a time of peace."

"You are mistaken, my lady wife," Tyrion pulled from her. "It is not I who does not understand," Sansa stumbled forward, trying to grasp him once more. "You are the one who will not listen to sense,"

"You are speaking nothing but nonsense," she spat. Tyrion turned away from her; he ran a hand through his golden curls as a heavy sigh escaped his small body.

"You almost _died_ , Sansa," Tyrion turned on her sharply, and she could see the pain that crossed his face. Her heart stopped when she saw the grief, the few tears which slipped forth from his eyes. "You do not understand because you did not have to experience you laying there on the bed while women with blood soaked rags tried their best to keep you alive while a maester was sent for. The stitches which had to be used to repair what my seed had done. The paleness of your cheeks, the darkened patches under your eyes, because what I thought was meant to be my joy and blessing almost took you from me as he caused you to labor a whole day. You were exhausted, Sansa, and everything was Lannister red. And I had to pace outside the room in hopes that you would be able to awaken. A whole day you were out of consciousness. I spoke with you, Sansa, I murmured into your closed ear that I loved you more than I could ever expect, and I knew what my father went through when he lost my mother to me."

"Tyrion," Sansa reached forward. He turned from her, ignoring her outstretched hand.

"I cannot even hate my son for it, either. I love him as fiercely as I love you, and I understand the life he is going to lead. The hardships and the stares, the need to fit into a world that automatically rejects you. I had done this to him, with my blood. And I had you on your death bed because of that same blood." He turned to look at her, tears flowing down his face as he shook his head. "It was my fault. I nearly killed another woman, it was my fault." He grimaced, smacking his flat palm against his chest. "First my mother, then my false lover, then you? And you, Sansa…my mother I did not know, and Shae was a liar who I saw fit deserving of her punishment, but you? My sweet smelling, soft spoken Sansa? My direwolf wife?" He looked to his feet once more. "I could not bear the thought of it."

She wanted to wrap him in a hug, wanted to bring him tightly into her embrace and assure him that she was not dead, that the gods blessed the two of them, that he should not worry so, but Tyrion's demeanor changed quickly and it caused her to shudder. He looked up to her with an icy look, wiping away the tears as if they were annoying flies buzzing about his cheeks, a frown crossing his anguished grimace.

"No, Sansa, I cannot bear to think I could lose you again." He answered her.

"I am not going to drink the moon tea, and I shall pray that the gods have given me a child," the words sounded spiteful, but her tone was anything but. She wanted to prove him wrong.

"Your stubbornness was once endearing, Sansa, but now it is a burden I suppose I must bear," he answered her.

Sansa hung her head, her hands enveloping her face as she felt the wall of grief hit her so forcefully tears would not come to her eyes. She heard Tyrion's footsteps approach her, his arms wrapping about her shoulders. She loosened her grip about her face and looked up at him.

"Be assured of one thing, Sansa Stark, I could never hate you," he answered. He took her cheeks in his hands softly tilting her head up.

" _I love you as well_ ," Sansa breathed as he kissed her.

The kiss was heavy and rough, his mouth pressing against hers. She brought her arms about his neck, pulling herself closer to him. A lover's kiss. This was what was blossoming between them. Her heart pounded in her chest, her head pain subsiding as Tyrion's mouth moved against hers. How she wanted to make love to him now, not like he had come to her last night. He was drunk and stupid, he was cruel and thoughtless. This kiss was gentle, a gesture which had once been shared abed in their young years.

 _Oh gods, please, I wish my husband to return to me as he once was._ She was not beneath the branches of a weirwood, but she hoped that they would hear her all the same.

"Mum?" The call of Benjen's voice was on the other side of the door. Sansa pulled from the embrace, smiling warmly as she slowly opened her eyes. The picture of married bliss she had once seen between her mother and her father when she was younger, now replicated between her and her prodigal husband.

The moment was aborted as he roughly let her go, turning his back to her and left her on the balcony with fresh tears.

* * *

She had been given enough time at the breaking of fast to recollect her demeanor and grab ahold of her swirling emotions. She began the meal with a harsh face, she could feel the frown pull upon her cheeks, but with some coaxing from her son, she was soon the picture of merriment. A false, mummer's version of joyhood, but a version which would placate all fears that something was amiss with the Lady Lannister. Her husband, on the other hand, was a picture of misery as he drank heavily from his cup and spoke to none of the few visitors who stopped by their table. Sansa turned red and tried to apologize for him when he even denied the greetings of Princess Shireen and Jon. When the couple left, she had turned to give him a harsh look of disapproval.

Benjen could not even rise a chuckle from his father, as much as he tried with stupid japes he had told a thousand times over and Tyrion always pretended to find amusing. The boy had even tried to nudge his father into a tickling match, but the man would not be stirred. Sansa distracted her son instead by asking him what he guessed each guest would present to the bride that morning.

She was glad for the respite of time between the breaking of fast and the ceremony, as guests returned to their apartments to don their best attire for the ceremony. Sansa had brought no extra gowns and wore her best to the morning meal, a beautiful red grown with intricate golden patterns about the bodice. The shadow of rearing lions appeared on her skirts, among the damask and floral swirls. Tyrion had given her the handsome garment for her last name day, knowing that she would want something to wear with the Lannister colors at the royal wedding. She had taken on the red and gold with grace as she began to raise her son. She was a Stark girl, there was no doubt, but it would not due to raise a boy whose name was Lannister under the colors of grey and white. Children often mimed their parents, and her own mother had thrown off the blues of the Tully House in favor of the greys of House Stark. Sansa would emulate her mother in this aspect, in hopes of bringing pride back to the Lannister name.

She did not expect much from the day other than further alienation and heart break between her and Tyrion, until she excused herself to go to the privy. On her way back from relieving herself, she had been stopped by a knight dressed in the colors of House Stark. She thought nothing of the man halting her in order to ask her a question. She had assumed that it was a message from Rickon or Bran, possibly a source of encouragement to their sister. When the ser began to speak, she realized this was no message from her direwolf brothers.

"Lady Sansa, I must ask your permission," The knight began, and she could see that he broke out into a cold sweat as he looked down at her. Sansa looked up into his handsome brown eyes, a smile warming her face.

"Whatever for, ser?" She asked.

"The North has been organizing a coup for this evening, my lady, and we wish to bring you with us, when we take over the North. We could bring your son as well," He began.

"And of my husband?" Sansa's eyebrows twisted.

"This is a plot to take the North back from the Southernlands. There is no need for your husband to be involved. Rather, we want to take you back to the North and marry you to a Northern lord. You are the Lady of House Stark, the only one left aside from your sister. Arya has agreed to join us—"

"Of course she has," Sansa was not surprised. This was the bloodletting that the wild girl had given her soul to.

"We want to bring you as well, my lady, but we cannot take you by force. Either you join us—"

"Or I am against you?" Sansa asked.

"Precisely," the knight nodded his head.

"I am sorry to say that I do not wish to leave my husband's household," Sansa replied. "Tyrion Lannister has treated me with abundant kindness and civility."

"That was not reported of last evening," the knight replied.

"You are following me?" Sansa replied, her mouth agape.

"We wished to speak with you last night, while your husband was in the brothels, but he came back sooner than expected. Our scout slipped past your sleeping Ser Podrick, and was only able to escape when you and your husband were…engaged; rather, I should say he was distracted."

"There is a misunderstanding, ser," Sansa replied. "I and Tyrion would be happy to give aid to the Northern cause, but I cannot join it. I am sorry,"

"No, Lady Lannister, you are not sorry…not yet, anyway," the knight responded before turning. He left her to return to her family on her own.

Her heart quickened, but she reasoned with herself; there was nothing to truly fear because the Northern cause was something which began with small fires and was quickly put out. Every wedding boasted the presence of Northern men hungry for their power and autonomy back. There was nothing to be alarmed for, nothing would come of her refusal.

But Sansa could not drown the nagging feeling that her sister had agreed to the madness.

"Sansa," Tyrion's voice called her, and she turned to see her husband and son standing further down the path in the small courtyard.

She picked up her skirts as she walked quickly towards them, absently brushing a lock of hair that had loosened itself from her braid behind her ear. _Should I tell him?_ She wondered as the distance between them closed.

"What was that Mormont guard doing, talking to you?" Tyrion asked as she came to his side. She looked back at the arch he had met her under, then back to her husband.

"By his colors he is a knight of Winterfell. As for what he told me, I do not think it is anything worth repeating," she shook her head.

"I have seen his face among those of House Momront for sure. If you had any sense you would tell me!" Tyrion barked. Sansa jumped at the command, shutting her eyes and exhaling slowly.

"He just wanted to inquire about my well-being, my lord. He was reminiscing on the Starks of old, and he said he remembered me when I was a child."

"He could be no more than a child himself at that time," Tyrion responded.

"Well, he remembered me, that was all he told me." She turned, offering her hand down to Benjen, "Come, Ben, let us begin our stroll to the sept."

"Why are we not riding in the elegant litters like all the other families?" Benjen whined. Sansa sighed, lowering herself to kneel before her son, taking his small hands in her.

"Casterly Rock was too far to bring one, and the royal family only has so many," Sansa replied.

"You are lying—it is because I am a disgrace, because I am…am a halfman." Benjen's green eyes shone. Sansa's eyes widened.

"No, Benjen, no, sweetheart," she pulled her son toward her, but he threw her hand aside. "Benjen!"

"No, you are wrong! I am the one that makes you sad; I am the one that makes father angry with you!" Benjen's green glass eyes were buried under his thick brow.

"Benjen," Tyrion stepped forward, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "There is no reason to treat your mother like you have—you should apologize." He instructed the boy.

"No!" Benjen shrieked. "I am not sorry! I am not sorry that I know why you are so angry with one another!"

"Ben, please, listen to me," Sansa stretched her arm forward.

"I will listen no longer!" He howled, placing his hands over his ears.

"Benjen," his father grabbed him roughly by the wrist, dislodging the hand from his ear. "You are being a disobedient son, and _that_ is what is making me angry. You will not be going to sept with your mother and me, you will be returning to the apartments with Podrick until you can gain control over your tantrum."

Sansa looked over at Tyrion with shock— she had not expected so harsh a punishment for something that the child sensed was true. And it was a statement which was very true.

Podrick stepped forward to take the boy by his stubby hand, but Benjen took to the ground, crying out in hysterics. The young knight paled as he looked at his commanding lord, unsure of how to handle the emotional child before him.

"Take him, Podrick," Tyrion commanded. "And make sure that he is to be in his room practicing his sums; if he cannot behave as a young lord, he shall not reap the benefits. And will have to work harder."

"Yes, m'lord," Podrick scooped the young child up, the boy pounded useless at the knight's chest and stomach with his small hands and feet.

Sansa watched with a knot in her stomach as her boy was led away from her, his face red in anger and from his screaming, his eyes shut tightly with tear streaks flowing from his eyes. She bit her lip, looking away as the boy began to scream for her.

"You are handling this better than I expected," Tyrion commented as he watched the boy and knight disappear across the courtyard.

"Tyrion—he was not wrong," she commented. "He was not wrong in the least."

"He would not have wanted to go to the wedding anyways; the ceremony is boring and he would not be able to see." Tyrion replied. He looked up at her, his green eyes watching her face. He jutted his elbow out toward her, and she took it daintily, her fingers wrapping about the sleeve of his doublet.

The two began to walk towards the gates of the city, arm in arm, toward the sept in the distance.

* * *

The ceremony was dreadfully long and loathsome to stand through; Sansa near forgotten that the vows were always the same. The Mother and the Father which had once stood guard over the raised dais in the main room were torn down, and on either side of the bride and groom sat dancing flames. A tribute to the Lord of Light. Melisandre stood behind the priest who would perform the ceremony.

Sansa and Tyrion had been placed near the back of the crowd, making the view of the procession even more difficult. They were able to see Myrcella pass, dressed in the blacks and golds of House Baratheon, her maiden's cloak fastened about her neck. The only part of the ceremony of the Seven which was kept. _A way to show ownership,_ Sansa noted.

She ducked her head respectfully as the girl passed, her blonde hair pulled into an elegant bun atop her head which fed into a braid down her back. Sansa could see the damaged ear and her cheek fully, and felt sorry for the girl. Her cheeks were red enough as she was beheld by the large crowd, but for such a deformity to be shown explicitly was sure to make her even more timid under the gaze of hundreds of eyes.

"She is beautiful," Sansa offered Tyrion.

"She is the picture of her parents," he muttered back. He looked up at her, and she offered him a sad smile.

"She will have beautiful children," Sansa offered. Though, she prayed fervently to the old gods that being the bastard child of a horrendous union would not give her children as mad as the deceased King Joffrey.

"Indeed," he nodded his head.

The two fell silent for the rest of the ceremony, Sansa doing her best to see what she could of the gorgeous bride and her equally attractive groom through the heads of taller men before them; Tyrion had given up any chance of seeing. She wished that he would at least provide some commentary as the local Red Priest began to speak, perhaps mock the enlightenment of Melisandre, but he was silent. Any hope she had last night, that there was a chance her husband could return to her, was crushed during the ceremony, making it hard for her to breath. She wanted more than anything to return to the coast of Casterly Rock by the conclusion of the wedding. She bowed her head in reverence when Melisandre began a prayer over the fire to bless the union, but Sansa's prayers were being sent to the godswood, a desperate attempt to plead to the gods of old.

She was rudely shaken from her intercession by several burly men who made haste to leave before the priestess finished blessing the couple. Both were dressed in colors of green and black, the sigil of a bear on their armour. Sansa gasped as she was knocked into, she was deliberately pushed aside, and struggled to maintain her balance.

Tyrion's hand went out to grab her elbow, keeping her on her feet. He pressed against her, his shoulder pushing against her lower back as he took a defensive stance behind her. "What the fuck did those Mormont bastards want?"

"Hush, Tyrion," Sansa responded, turning away from the sept's open doors. "The priestess is still speaking,"

"Do you think I much care about her useless mutterings to her god?" Tyrion seethed. Sansa felt her cheeks pinken as she looked down at him.

The priestess must have finished, however, as the crowd began to clap modestly for the new couple. Sansa turned to look at Tyrion.

"You were not honest with me in the courtyard," he said.

"It does not matter," she shook her head. "All which was said is something which will add to your already explosive rage, and then we will be humiliated even further," Sansa replied, turning on her heels to join the exodus of guests out the doors.

"Sansa!" Tyrion chased after her. When she found the shade of a small brush tree, she stopped to turn and cross her arms.

"What is it you want of me?" She demanded.

"I want you to be safe, my lady," Looking into his green eyes, he truly meant it. Sansa turned her head to observe the crowd gathering in a semi-circle to greet the newly joined couple among them, to raise them up in celebration and bless them as they followed behind to the feasting grounds.

"Sansa," Tyrion reached a hand out to her elbow.

"I…" Sansa bowed her head. "He asked me if I was to join their cause, their Northern one. If I would bend my knee and leave you behind, to join them and remarry a Northern clansman."

"You refused?" Tyrion's eyebrows knitted.

"I would not have…I would not have left you," Sansa confessed. "I did not lie to you, Tyrion. I love you, even when you break my heart with your anger and your cruelty. Even when you _hate_ me for what I have done!"

"Lady Sansa, Lord Tyrion!" Lady Margaery called from the outskirts of the throng, trailing behind the mass of people. Sansa hid her surprise that the woman was outside of the commotion, and not among it. "You will be late to the feast and shamed further if you do not hurry along!"

"We were just leaving, my lady," Tyrion called after her. "My wife needed a moment to catch her breath and rest."

"I hope you do feel better quickly, Lady Sansa," Margaery offered her a sweet smile. "I would not want you to miss the thrill of a wedding feast."

"No," Sansa shook her head. "No I would not want to."

She looked down at Tyrion with a frown. He sighed, turning his head to look after the crowd. "We will speak of this later, Sansa. When we are not angry and tired,"

"Do not touch me this evening, I do not care how drunk you." Sansa could not believe the threats which came from her mouth. "I do not want you to treat me as you did last night; I am not your whore who will spread my legs whenever you please it; if you wish for a woman to do that, go and actually spend your money on one who will."

Tyrion paled, but turned without a word and began walking. Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, and picked up her skirts to follow afterwards.

* * *

"Sansa, you have not even touched the lemon cakes I sent just for you," Princess Shireen commented as she nudged the woman beside her gently. Jon had exerted some of his limited power to provide space for Tyrion and Sansa at the royal tables. Shireen was rather disappointed that her young nephew would not be among the diners, but insisted she and Jon would come to Casterly Rock soon after the wedding to visit.

"I am just not hungry, Your Grace," Sansa responded.

"Whatever is the matter?" The woman asked as she pushed the tray away from Sansa, placing a hand on her arm.

"I am not comfortable with this portion of the wedding, the bedding ceremony and all of that." Sansa replied. It was not a lie; even in her days of wedded bliss to the Lannister Lord she loathed the hour in which the bedding ceremony was performed. She was glad Tyrion had forbidden such a thing at their wedding.

"It is a rather…unsettling practice. But the lords and ladies of the court love it so, and I could just not let them lose the last bit of fun in these practices that they have. I know life under the watch of R'hllor is less fun than in the eyes of the Seven, and I know that my father commands that R'hllor's commands be strictly kept…"

"There is nothing wrong with being under the watch of R'hllor," Sansa lied as she looked down the table at her husband. The two had been separated an hour or so ago, when Shireen pulled Sansa close to her side and whispered all sorts of fantastic ideas of marriage and love into the jaded woman's ear.

"Your bedding ceremony must have been…hard to remember, I know you and Tyrion did not start off as equals, much less friends." The princess offered her a kind smile.

"No, Tyrion refused to have the bedding ceremony. I am sure you remember that he did not take my maidenhead until after our separation," she responded, taking a cup of wine in hand and drinking deeply.

"How very gracious of him; though people tried to make him seem a demon, he seems to be a good husband to you and a wonderful father to your boy."

"Yes," Sansa replied, a stiff smile on her lips. "If I were to speak vulgarly in front of Your Grace for a moment?"

"Please, Sansa, my name is Shireen. How oft do I need to tell you before you start calling me that?" Shireen's exasperation was mainly for show, but Sansa knew that she would lose her patience if the Lannister Lady did not give up her courtesy. "And you may speak freely."

 _How these moments remind me of Lady Randa, how she always told me such things about men and their cocks._ Sansa mused; her mind was beginning to swirl with the effects of the wine. "I used to make love to him, after we went to weddings. After the bedding ceremony, when we returned to our quarters. It was my way of thanking him for freeing me from such nightmares."

Shireen flushed red as she lowered her eyesight. "That was rather…forward of you, my lady."

"Yes, I suppose it was," Sansa looked down into the cup.

"Ladies and lords," A youth from the House of Dorne hopped upon the dais where the newlyweds were eating and accepting guests with their blessings.

King Stannis sat with a frown upon his face, Melisandre to his right. On the king's left sat Selyse, who looked old and gaunt, and rather unhappy that her husband spent much of the meal in conference with the Red Priestess and paid no attention to his wife at all.

"It is time, my dear ladies and lords, maidens and sers, for the bedding ceremony!" The youth danced upon his toes.

Sansa looked to Shireen with a pained smile. "I suppose this ends our conversation,"

Shireen slid the napkin from her lap and stood beside the bench. She offered her hand to Sansa to help her rise. "We best make our way to the groom's side of the table."

Sansa took the hand in hers, looking toward her husband as she rose to her feet. He was watching her, and he had been. She had felt his eyes on her ever since he left her side, keeping her in his sights. When the two passed the man, he reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist.

"Sansa," he offered.

"Yes, my lord?" She asked, looking at his hand and not his eyes.

"You will find me if there is trouble?" He asked.

Sansa's eyes flittered up to his, and she felt her heart skip when she saw the worry embedded in his green gaze.

"Of course, my lord." She said. Tyrion ran his thumb along the back of her hand before letting her wrist go, turning from her to the men at the table who were beginning to become rowdy in the excitement of undressing the glorious Baratheon girl.

Trystane stood from his chair, holding his hand out to Myrcella to take. The girl's face was aflame for a second time that day, but she took his hand and stood to her feet. Her new husband pulled her close and whispered something in her ear, offering her a kiss on her marred cheek, and then pushed her toward the men who were beginning to eagerly pack together in hopes of stripping the young girl of one article of clothing.

Sansa looked back in curiosity toward her small husband, and saw him sitting alone at the tables. He would more like be trampled than take any joy in stripping the bride of any article of clothing. She was sure that he was even more unmotivated seeing as the bride in question was once his sweet niece. _He is blaming himself for this,_ Sansa noted as she watched him nurse his drink. _He was the one who originally arranged this match, sent his young niece away from King's Landing. He meant it as a kindness._

_He wanted to send me away…he…he wanted me to be safe. And I was given a different sort of kindness._

It was a shriek which pulled Sansa's attention away from her husband and toward the young prince. Arya stood atop the stage, a dagger in hand and a pregnant belly weighing her small frame down. Sansa was dumbstruck at the sight of her sister.

The girl was dressed in a grey silk gown, pulled taut about her round stomach. She was beginning the final months of her child carrying, so Sansa guessed. The girl had Stannis pinned against his seat, a blade to his throat. Two men on either side of her held Melisandre and Selyse in place. From the red blades of the three's daggers it could only be assumed how the guards were disposed of.

"Arya!" Sansa cried as the hall went silent. She looked about and saw that men dressed in armour were at various points around the room, keeping people in their seats or away from the doors.

 _No, no! Do not do this, sister. Our mother and brother were slaughtered like this. Do not do the same sin as our enemies once did_. But Sansa kept her face soft, slowing her footsteps and walking slowly toward her sister.

"Arya, there is no need for this," Sansa spoke gently, imagining speaking to Benjen after a harsh night terror. Her sister looked at her with wildfire in her grey eyes.

"There is every need for this, Sansa," Arya replied. She pressed the blade into the skin of Stannis' neck, her fingers wrapped tightly in his dark greying hair. The king was stoic, his arms resting gently on the table before him, his lips moving as he muttered.

"This is senseless, my sister," Sansa offered her hand out toward her sister. "We are not going to wash the sins away from our past, but this is not how we atone for them."

"How would you know, Sansa _Lannister_?" Her sister hissed, the blade slipping on Stannis neck and a small scratch weeping blood. "You were not sent off against your will to marry a man; you wanted marriage and you returned to your husband. The Imp! The man whose family wanted to tear you apart, wanted more than anything to see our father dead, a creature whose father gave the command to have _my mother and my brother slaughtered_."

"They were my mother and my brother as well," Sansa tried to reason with her sister. "Robb was my dear friend, as Jon is yours."

"Arya," Jon took the cue from Sansa, crying out from among the arms of a guard who held the prince tightly. "Arya, do not do this. Drop your blade, put it away. You were a swordswoman once, and you lived up to a code."

"And so did the Houses when they began to slaughter one another, so did our king," Arya jerked back the head of Stannis who continued to sit demurely much to Sansa's surprise. _He could overcome her, could he not?_ She wondered. "Our king who is destroying our way of life; who wants to see the North annihilated just as he saw the Greyjoys and Boltons. He is killing our men off one by one, marrying us to Southern men and women. We will put up with it no longer. The Starks are to be wardens of the North, and so we shall be!"

Sansa looked in horror over at Jon who was pulling against the guard, his feet staggering for a grip. _He…it is like every wedding before_. Sansa paled as she realized what had occurred. They must have slipped some type of poison or sleep aid in the drinks, Stannis was not moving because his limbs were heavy, not because he wanted to be prideful.

"And the Dornish want their way of life returned to them. We do not want a King in Westeros, we want a King of our own kind. We do not want to shame our bastards or adopt your ways of dress and living. We want a free Dorne!" The man next to Arya cried. He was holding Queen Selyse by her dark hair; the girl was visibly shuddering under the man's grip.

"Stop this foolishness!" Shireen called from within the group of women. "This is not how we should solve what is wrong. Let us speak over this, let us draw agreements and laws—"

"So they can be ignored again? I think not." The man shook his head. "I will rid my land of every man from the northern lands who wishes to see us captive and controlled. I will not have a false King. And I will never bow to a false Queen." Sansa knew what he was going to do, and she looked away. The screams about her confirmed her fears.

When she looked back, Selyse was slumped over the table, blood dripping onto the stone ground below. Sansa felt her heart clutch as she watched as Arya pressed the blade of her dagger into Stannis' neck.

"I know that my brother will serve this kingdom well, it is time that we take our power into our hands, to set free the rulers who wish to free us, who wish to preserve our life!" Arya cried. "To make sure that those who are meant to pay, will do so. No more controlled justice, no more selective mercy. Those who supported the Baratheons of Storm's End, the Boltons who wished to crush the North, the Lannisters who had bastard children and wanted all to subject under their cruel hand—all shall pay."

"Arya!" Sansa cried, running to her sister to try and stop her hand. But it was too late. Her sister damned herself.

Stannis Baratheon jumped a few times, his blood gushing from the wound in his neck as he coughed weakly. Sansa was grabbed by two men who came from the back of the dais, their hands roughly holding her arms. She attempted to crumple to her knees, but the men's grip suspended her, and she could only cry in horror as Stannis and Melisandre, with red ribbons across their necks, fell into the plates.

"Where is the Lord of Light now?" Arya asked, stabbing her dagger into the back of Stannis' neck.

"No!" Shireen shrieked as she tried to make her way to the dais, but several more men grabbed hold of her.

"There will be a wedding ceremony, but it will be one which creates our borders, which reignites the way of Northern culture." Arya stepped before the crowd, her heavy belly slowing her movement. "Rickard Stark was to be sent to the wall as my brother Bran was, to give up Winterfell for the Knight's Watch. That will be no longer,"

Sansa struggled to get her feet under her, the fists hold her were squeezing tightly, her hands were beginning to go numb.

"Arya, stop!" Jon slurred amongst the crowd of confused and frightened lords.

"My brother Rickon will be married to Lady Lyanna of House Mormont, an honor to the slaughter of her cousin, Ser Jorah. While House Mormont is poor, Winterfell will be a good home for her to raise _Northern_ children. My brother Bran will be given Meera Reed in time, the Lady has agreed to the marriage."

"Why do you not marry them now, and then let us be on our way back to our homes, to leave the North and Dorne to rest?" a familiar voice called from between the groups. Sansa had near forgotten about her small husband in the terror which had occurred before her eyes. She struggled to turn and see him, where he stood before the dais, his stance strong and a smirk on his face.

"You would enjoy that, Tyrion Lannister, would you not?" Arya spoke. "You would enjoy returning back to a castle which will give you comfort, where you can pollute my sister's mind and rape her. That would give you pleasure. The North does not forget, Tyrion Lannister. And it has not forgotten you."

"So you are to extract punishment on whom _you_ deem injustice?" Tyrion asked.

"I and the men of the North and the men of Dorne will cut those down who will threaten us, who will tear apart the tapestry of Northern and Dornish life. We lived apart in peace, we were able to be allies, but we should not be married, not any longer."

"Whatever you say, Queen Arya," his voice was filled with sarcasm. "But I will ask that your men unhand my wife."

Sansa looked over at him, straining to see over her shoulder. He was watching her, a frown on his mouth, but she knew him too well, she could see it from here—

 _He was afraid_.

"I cannot do that yet," Arya replied. Sansa watched as several men from House Karstark, with blazing white suns on their armour, stepped forward with Rickon between them. Rickon looked to Arya with wide blue eyes.

Before the boy was given leave to speak, a woman with deep colored skin, dark luxurious brown hair, and bright brown eyes stepped forward next to Arya.

"Arya Stark will stand judge for the North, as elected by the clansmen and noble Houses of the North. Rickon will stand by her side, but it is acknowledged that he was too young to remember the crimes committed in the war." The woman's smile was intoxicating, and Sansa knew that this had to be one of the daughters of the dead Prince Doran. "I, Arianne of House Martell shall make decisions regarding the needs of Dorne. For the sake of my father, who was the beloved Prince of Dorne, the man loved by the people. I have spoken with my people, and we have decided that Trystane will have been tainted by his…match, whom he grew to love as young naïve boy."

 _She was supposed to be dead,_ Sansa watched the woman standing before her.

"I think justice has been served in the likes of our leadership. Jon Targaryen, once called Snow, will be your new ruler in the Crownlands, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach. The North has decided to take the Iron Islands, the Vale, and the Riverlands into their reach. Many of these Houses supported the Northern cause during the War, and we wish to show our gratitude by giving them a fair leadership." Arya took over for Arianne. "You have lost the ill just ruler of King Stannis and his weak wife, Lady Selyse. We have also removed the Red Priestess who served Stannis far too closely to be trusted any further."

"It is by the request of Lady Arya that we are to spare Lady Shireen, the Queen of King Jon." Arianne frowned at the woman next to her. "But we are not through with the leadership in Dorne which was presumptuously placed."

Several men pushed through the crowd of men, and a scream could be heard as Myrcella was brought forward. "Lady Myrcella, a gift from the Imp before us."

Sansa looked over to see Tyrion glaring up under his hooded brow, his mouth hard set. How she wished she had been free so she could go and stand by his side. She was frightened, and found a strange desire within her to have her lord husband by her side. He was clever and a master strategist, he would be able to wrestle them out of danger.

"While she was paraded as Baratheon, we know of the illicit relationship between Ser Jaime Lannister and Queen Cersei. The Lannisters are a house of gluttony and pride, so prideful that they deem their ways better than others," Arya stated as she and Arianne took the girl by both arms.

Arianne spoke, holding the girl tightly in her grasp. "This woman is a bastard, wrongfully married to the Prince of Dorne as if she was a respectable noble. She was a deceit from the moment she was conceived, and she will be no Queen of Dorne."

"But…but you wished to make me Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Myrcella pleaded. "You were my friend, my mentor…" Myrcella struggled against the grip of Arianne.

Arianne let out a laugh. "You were my pawn, you were the one who was to precipitate a war for me in Dorne, but it seems I did not need you alive to do that."

 _Like my mentor, Petyr Baelish, used me for his own selfish gain._ Sansa pulled at the men as she realized what the verdict would be. She wanted to run to the scared girl, to throw her arms about her and tuck her face into her neck and promise her that everything was going to be righted, that she would have nothing to fear.

"You will not!" Tyrion cried. "Unhand my niece,"

Arianne smiled cruelly at Sansa's husband. She grabbed a blade behind her, the hilt most like tucked under her Dornish garments. "As you wish, my lord," she said, quickly sliding the blade across Myrcella's throat, sending the girls sprawling onto the ground before them, her body riling in pain and gasping for air.

"This is cruelty, this is madness!" Tyrion cried as he tried to make his way toward his dying niece. She was calling out with breathy cries for her uncle, for her new husband. A Dornishman grabbed Tyrion, holding him easily back with his grip.

"Arya Stark, what is it you are doing?" Sansa cried. "You are shaming our proud Northern name, our heritage!"

"I am doing what you would not, Sansa," Arya replied. "We were taught to take punishment into our own hands, that if we were to condemn the person, we should be able to cleave their head with our own sword held in our own hands."

Sansa let out a gasping cry as she watched Myrcella still in the dirt, a stain of red haloed her dead body. Another scream echoed out, and she could see through tear filled eyes that Trystane was being held by a burly Dornishman, his body pinned against the wall of a man as he kicked and clawed, trying to get to his new wife.

"And we must sometimes make judgements we wish not to make," Arya replied. Arianne smiled coldly as Sansa felt her captors pull her forward.

Her heart leapt in her chest, and she was trying to dig her heels into the dirt, trying to stop the men from moving her before the two women. She let out a cry, her chest heaving with sobs. She was growing light headed as she fought for air, wanting to escape from her captor's grip.

"Your sister wants to show that she is not partial, Lady Sansa Lannister," Arianne wiped her blade against her skirts. "But I am willing to show enough mercy to ask you again."

"No, please," Sansa cried. "I have a son, he is young, he needs me, please do not!" Sansa cried.

"Sansa!" She heard Tyrion scream her name.

Sansa was pushed to the ground before Arianne and Arya. Arianne was the one who spoke, her mouth twisted into a smile. Arya could not look at her sister, something Sansa wanted so very badly. Perhaps she could plead with her by looking at her, ask her to spare her, to let her free.

"You were asked, Sansa, if you wished to take the cloak of Stark back upon your shoulders, if you would deny the name Lannister," Arianne reached down and forced Sansa's chin to point toward her, her dark eyes looking into Sansa's. "You did much for the Northern cause during the war; we wish to consider you an ally. We could find you a brave Northern lord to marry, Sansa, we could give you that. If you left behind the Imp, if you turned your back on him."

Sansa closed her eyes.

"Let my wife go!" Tyrion's voice could be heard from behind Sansa. "You want your revenge on Lannister blood, so be it, but spare her. She is not a Lannister, I am. Kill me, but let Sansa go!"

Sansa shuddered under a fresh wave of tears.

"Your husband will have his due, Sansa," Arianne spoke evenly. "We need to know where your heart lies."

Sansa shook her head. "I…I need to think, please," Sansa begged. "Let me see my son, let me hold him. Please."

Arya looked at her sister, her grey eyes soft as she looked down.

"Let Sansa go!" Tyrion cried.

"Arianne, let us clear these bodies, let us set up this mock of a ceremony as an actual trial. We will allow my sister her moment of peace to think, keep the ladies and the lords separate until we are ready to resume, just as any proper trial."

Arianne looked over to the self proclaimed Northern Queen.

"I am an impatient woman,"

"It will allow you time to gather your thoughts," Tyrion cried. "Think of all the men and women who need to be punished."

"Do you not think I have not calculated these lists while I hid in the desert for years?" Arianne was clearly angry.

"Even more reason to make sure that you are in a spirit to enjoy the executions," Tyrion offered. Arianne looked to Arya, who nodded her dark head.

"I need a moment, to sit down," Arya placed a hand on her pregnant belly. Arianne looked at it with disgust.

"Very well, we shall bring the lords and ladies to a proper court," the dark skinned woman conceded. "Do not offer them food or drink, offer them nothing." She commanded the men bearing sigils of Dornish houses and Northern clans.

Sansa was grabbed by her arms once more, being dragged backwards. She was not able to gain her footing, her gown providing little protection between the earth and her body. She tried to struggle at first, but it was little use against the strong grips of the knights.

"Sansa!" Tyrion's voice caught her attention, and she looked up.

Her little lord husband was being held by his shoulders by the large Dornishmen. His doublet was ripped at his joint of his arm and body, sagging down his stunted arm. She expected his face to be dark and angry, but it was filled with fear. His scar was stretched across his grimace and she saw that his cheeks were wet. He was crying under the grasp.

"Tyrion!" She answered him back, her body limply being pulled over rocks and stones as she was brought out of the outside hall to one of the rooms of the castle, the last of the women being corralled together, with no clue of who was to die and who would be spared.

* * *

The room the women were brought to was bare and empty, only curtains which billowed in the evening winds gave it any sense of inhabitance. Sansa was dropped forcefully, her head falling back to smack against the floor. When her gaolers had let her go, she scrambled to her feet, rubbing the back of her head.

She surveyed the flock of women before her, divided into two groups. The Northern women, which contained Meera Reed and Lyanna Mormont, were standing toward the back of the room. Several looked startled, but for the most part they were relaxed, speaking softly among one another. Some of the Dornish women began to intermingle, paramours and ladies alike. But the women of the lands in question were pressed into a tight group, many hugging one another and crying. Sansa felt torn between the women of the North, the ladies she was supposed to have grown up alongside, and the women who stood before her, terrified.

"My sisters of the Westerlands, the Crownlands, Storm's End, and the Reach, do not tremble so, stand strong." Sansa commanded, pulling a brave face she did not feel. "There will be no bloodshed for us, as we are to go back to our homes, to our families, with peace. With an understanding that the North will be their own people and the Dornish their own guardians. We will be safe,"

"But what of the women like us, Sansa? What about those of us married to the Houses of these kingdoms? What are we to do?" A voice cried out from amongst them.

Shireen stepped forward, to take Sansa's side. "Lady Sansa is right, there will be peace. My husband, your new king, he will speak with his sister. This madness must end. There is no need for the hatred to run thick between Houses over borderlines."

"This has to do with our _culture_." Lyanna Mormont stepped forward from the other group. "Our way of life has been controlled by the Crownlands and surrounding kingdoms for far too long. This will end, the North has their own Warden, and we are to obey them. Only they know what is right for us. Robb Stark should have been our king, but he was senselessly murdered by men of your own."

"He was my brother," Sansa took a step toward the lady, her eyes narrowing. "Do you think that I have forgotten, that I do not grieve the memory of him and my lady mother? I know what some of these houses have done, forsaking their honor and their vows—"

"And what of your honor and your vows, Lady Lannister?" A Dornishwoman sneered. "You were a proud Northern woman until your father made the foolish mistake of trying to marry you to the King, a Lannister," the Dornish woman spat on the ground. "You married one, and you have left all sense of pride and honor toward your people."

"If we distinguish ourselves, if we draw borders, we are not going to resolve any of this." Shireen insisted.

"We have seen how marrying us to create alliances has worked. It has weakened us; it has made us forget where we came from. Not anymore, no longer!" Another Dornishwoman cried, her dark eyes burning with rage. "I was not meant to be brought into Storm's End to marry a knight. I am a noble woman of House Manwoody. I did not deserve any of this."

Lady Margaery emerged from the crowd of women, stepping to Sansa's side and drawing her backwards by her elbow. She pressed her forehead to the younger woman's, whispering softly.

"They are not going to listen to us; they think what we have done is wrong." Her soft brown eyes looked into Sansa's.

"Is it not?" Sansa asked. Margaery bit her lip.

"Speak before us, Lady 'Baratheon'," the Manwoody lady cried. "Your husband will be next to die. After the traitor of a direwolf and her husband."

"Enough!" Meera turned on the woman. "Sansa may be empty headed at the moment, but she is of House Stark and I will not allow for you to curse their sigil."

The Dornes and the Northern Houses began to squabble amongst one another.

"Do you smell that?" Shireen cried out, pausing the arguments breaking out among the once elegant ladies.

"What is it?" Margaery asked.

"It is smoke," Sansa went to the window nearest the apartments, "They are burning the dwellings, they are destroying everything!"

"It has to be the Northern clansman, the wild and crazy beasts they are!" A dark skinned woman cried. "Burning Dorne when we were supposed to be in alliance."

Sansa felt her heart rise in her throat. Tyrion had sent Benjen back to the apartments as a punishment; they were not to see him until after the feast…

"Let me out!" Sansa screamed, rushing to the door and pounding upon the wood. "Let me out, let me out now!"

Two men grabbed hold of her arms, dragging her back. The few guards left to watch the women. "Let me out this instant!" Sansa pulled against them, her blood coursing fast enough to wrench herself from their grip. She went back to the door, trying the handle futilely. She took to slamming her shoulder against the sturdy wood.

"Sansa!" Margaery ran to her friend, her arms wrapped about her, cradling her against her body as they sank to the floor. She was petting her friend's auburn as she wept in her arms.

"My son!" Sansa cried. "My son!"

"Shhh," Margaery rocked her. Sansa clutched to the woman as she mourned for her boy, wanting nothing more than to have him by her side.


	7. The Wedding Night, Day Five- Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to hold off til Saturday, butttt happy early Friday. I am hoping to get a new chapter of Desperate to Connect out either Friday night or Saturday morning, so keep an eye out for that as well! I hope you enjoy this. And sorry if you hate me at the very end of this. - Lydia

"Are you feeling any better?" Tyrion asked Jon who was propped against the wall. Jon shook his head, panting as he slumped over.

"I do not understand how I was tricked into this," he groaned, trying to weakly lift his arms. "I wish that I had not refused Sam to come with me, he would know some antidote or other which could cure this."

"You would need food and water for that, and I am afraid we are fresh out." Tyrion groaned. He picked at the scar on his nose, desperate to come up with a plan, but drawing nothing but empty worries.

"Do you think they have hurt her?" Jon asked. "Shireen? And the baby?"

"I think your sister would forbid it, Arya would not want to see her favourite brother wounded," Tyrion offered the distraught king some form of encouragement.

"I am so sorry," Jon hung his head.

"For what?" Tyrion turned to the man. "Was it you who forced your cousin to draw her blade along my niece's neck? Was it you who forced her hand to threaten my own wife?"

"I wish I had known." Jon struggled to try to stand, but his limbs would not gather underneath him. "I knew she was miserable, my once rambunctious sister. I knew she had lost all sense of control when she was stripped of her armor and her sword and married off to Willas Tyrell. He is a man of good character; he would be a good husband to her."

"Your sister was never in need or want of a husband," Tyrion sighed.

"My lord?" A Tyrell joined the dwarf and limp monarch. Garlan Tyrell was tall and burly, but he, too, swayed on his feet. "Your Grace,"

"Ser Garlan," Jon smiled. "It is good to see you are well."

"I wish I could say the same for my good sister. And my brother. Lord Willas is distraught over the thought of his wife's participation in the coup. He thought she had gone off to lie down, with all the stress and hardship with their unborn child…"

"Where is Willas now?" Tyrion asked.

"He is with some of the men on the other side of the Great Hall," Garlan responded. "I wish they had not stripped me of my weapons when I came to the wedding. How foolish I was to not keep a dagger close by."

"No man could have known what was happening," Jon tried to comfort him.

"But they did. If you listened to the drunken Northerners in the brothels, if you heard what they whispered...you would know that they had something planned." Tyrion disregarded Garlan's distress. "I would not be surprised if they were hiding Northern warriors in those brothels, giving every penny they had to the cause."

"We will be hard pressed to escape this." Garlan commented.

"Only for some," Tyrion shook his head. "Only for those of us with Northern wives, who have committed crimes; who were born to the wrong House." _My son_ , Tyrion thought. _What will they do with my son?_ "Have you seen my nephew, Tommen?"

"He is with Ser Willas now; he has been looking for you." Garlan commented. "I assumed you would be with the King. That would be the most influential person in this room Tyrion Lannister could associate himself with, so he would be there."

"You are a very shrewd man," Tyrion replied. "I wish to see him; to be sure he is well."

"Of course, my lord." Garlan smiled. "Does my king wish to come?"

"No," Jon shook his head. "I should call for one of my lords to help me up to walk about the room, to liven the spirits of the lords and sers here."

"I will be happy to aid my King when I am through with escorting Lord Tyrion," Garlan offered his service.

"That is kind of you, and noble, Ser Garlan, but I will find a man who is not engaged in prior commitments." Jon smiled. Tyrion turned to follow Garlan when Jon called his name.

"If you come up with a way to get us out of here, my clever goodbrother, you must let me know." Jon smiled weakly.

"Yes, Your Grace," Tyrion nodded his head.

"Let us go," Ser Garlan urged the halfman on. "There is no telling when they will let us out of these walls and lead us like lambs to the alter."

"They will wait until morning," Tyrion assured him. "They will keep us up the entire night, keeping us from food and drink, and when those of us who are very drunk sober, we will have spinning heads and be of no use." Tyrion waddled after Garlan. "Why are you offering me a kindness?"

"I remember when I was with you at the royal wedding, you and Lady Sansa," Garlan said. "The way you cared for her then, when she was barely more than a child and given to you out of cruelty to both wife and man, I knew that you could be a good husband to her." Ser Garlan said. "And you proved such when you two were reunited, inseparable the both of you."

 _I have not been a good husband to her now_. Tyrion thought. He fell silent as he followed the knight through the gatherings of men.

Tommen was sitting with Lord Willas on the far side of the room. Both men had tear tracks streaming into their beards. Willas seemed to have just freshly started crying.

"Tommen," Tyrion cried out to his blood relation. The boy turned, scrambling to his feet and towards his uncle. He greeted the man with a hug, drawing him close against his body.

"Uncle Tyrion," Tommen cried. "I never thought I would find you."

"How are you?" Tyrion asked when his nephew released him of the grip. Tommen's green eyes looked into his dwarf uncle's.

"I…I wish to know where Margaery went." He said. "She did not want to come to Dorne and I made her. She felt uneasy about the travel…"

"She could not have known," Tyrion assured him. "And she will be well. It is your own skin which you should be worried for."

"They killed Myrcella, my sister." Fresh waves of tears fell down the man's cheeks. "They slit her throat right there on the stage,"

"I know," Tyrion patted the boy's hand. "And they will wish to do the same to you, I am afraid to say. We must find a way out of here."

"We have no weapons, we are either drugged or drunk—what are we to do?"

"This is my fault," Willas hung his head. "I should have kept a closer watch on my wife. She has withdrawn even further, not leaving her room but sending notes far too often."

"What is done has been done; we can no longer linger over that." Tyrion responded. "We will find your wife when we have been let out of captivity. First, we need to find our way out of here."

"I just want to be sure my wife is safe," Tommen interrupted. "I want Margaery to be on her way out of Dorne back to Highgarden."

"And I want my wife to deny her marriage to me, and I want her to return to the North, but my wants are not going to change the reality that whatever is chosen Arianne Martell is going to be sure that she is killed, that she has no chance of returning to me. I cannot dwell on that now. I cannot force my lady wife to make a decision. She is a Northern girl in that; she will not have her hand forced."

"The apartments are burning!" A cry sounded over the weary group of men.

"All of our things!" Tommen worried. "Oh, curse the Seven, I wish I had sent Margaery home."

Tyrion felt his cheeks go white. _Oh please, Podrick, please tell me that you have taken my son out of that place. That you are riding a horse hard and fast to the North. That you will return my blood to Casterly Rock_.

"What are the Northern brutes doing to our castles?" A Dornish lord cried. Tyrion turned to watch several men stagger to their feet.

"This is not our fault," A rugged lord responded back. "This is the fault of the middle kingdoms. It should be men like these two that we kill!" The finger he was pointing was aimed directly at Tyrion and Tommen.

"This is madness!" Garlan cried. "Do you think killing these two is going to do much good? Is going to change the mind and state of the events?"

"They are Lannisters, they should have been killed years ago. They should never have lived." Several men nearest the uncle and nephew rose to their knees. Tyrion felt his heart race as he knew that he would have the life choked from him if nothing was done to stop them.

"You will not lay a hand on my goodbrother or my sister's trusted friend's lord husband." Garlan threatened. Willas wobbled to his feet as well, joining his brother's side.

"Tommen," Tyrion hissed. "We have to think of a way out of here…we have to think of some kind of escape. I am small, if we can find some sort of passage for me to sneak through, I could do it. I evaded death once this way."

Tommen shook his head. "I do not know the Great Hall of Dorne."

"I do," A weary voice interrupted Tommen.

Tyrion turned to see a red faced Trystane. His eyes were bloodshot from weeping, but his jaw was set in rage. "They wanted to kill your wife, as they did mine. You are my goodbrother and gooduncle now, even if my wife is dead."

Tommen smiled weakly up at the Prince of Dorne. A show of comradeship. "Where can I go?"

"Behind the dais," Trystane indicated the place where a cushiony throne sat, with several luxurious sheets next to it. "There is a loose bit of wall that connects to the air passages. We used to sneak along it during the summers when it was opened to let the breezes into the castle. When I was a child."

"Do you think I could get over there?" Tyrion asked, looking across the sea of faces of blood thirsty, grieving men.

"I will help you," Trystane agreed. "The Dornishmen would not want me harmed. As much as my sister is mad and foolish, set on her emotions instead of reason, she would not want any harm to come to her baby brother."

"I will escort my lord as well," Garlan offered as he turned back to face the dwarf and the prince. Tommen placed a hand on Tyrion's shoulder.

"What will you do, when you escape?" Tommen asked.

"I am not sure—see if I can get my hands on weapons. I was able to kill my father with a crossbow, for granted he was distracted taking a shit in the privy, but I am sure that these men will not expect me to be roaming the castle guards unbound and armed."

"We should move soon, else you will not be alive long enough to attempt." Garlan responded. "We will have to move casually, be sure the guards do not expect us."

"We need to do something," Tommen suggested. "Create a distraction, much like Olenna Tyrell did when she slipped the poison into my brother's cup."

Tyrion looked over to his nephew. He was surprised that he knew the truth of what happened, yet loved the Tyrells as he did. _But Joffrey was of my blood, and it was my lady wife who unknowningly carried the deadly gems, yet I wished and grieved for her daily, not for my nephew._

"You need a distraction?" Willas Garlan asked. "There is something I can do."

Tyrion opened his mouth to ask him how he planned to do this, but was interrupted by Willas walking into a group of men and throwing a punch. The angered knight attacked back, his fists landing on Willas' body in protest. Men began to surround the two combatants, not sure whether to treasure the enjoyment or stop the conflict.

"If we are to go, my lord, we must do so now," Garlan said. Tyrion looked up at the knight and nodded his head.

"Let us go, then."

* * *

The air ducts were larger than Tyrion's height, making them easy to navigate. Trystane had quickly slipped the rock out of place in the wall and Tyrion scrambled through, sealed into the passageway as the prince closed the entrance as soon as the dwarf was inside.

The downside of not knowing Dorne or having a guide was that Tyrion had to guess which passages to take and which ways to avoid. He nearly fell to his death when he took a wrong turn and narrowly avoided stepping off a hole in the side of the castle ten feet from the ground. He made sure to move much more slowly through the dark to be sure he did not make any wrong steps.

He was comforted when he came upon a ladder in the midst of a path, climbing down the rungs and into another maze of breezeways below. He prayed to Sansa's gods, that they would grant him enough luck to save his pious lady wife. To his surprise, the gods were merciful, and he was climbing from the ducts to the ground soon enough.

He pressed himself against the wall, looking for the torches of any guards or Northern or Dornishmen who might be looking for deserters. When he rounded the corner of the castle wall he was pressed against, he found he was in a part of the great courtyard. Across the way was a group of clansman gathered over a fire, their armour shining in the fire's light. Tyrion crouched against the shadows, watching the men.

They were picking up things, one after the other, and throwing them into the fire. The stench which erupted from the smoke was sickening.

He thought better of sneaking closer to the men, but he could not help his curiosity. He moved through the shadows of the bushes and the trees, praying he would not upset any monkeys in the woods. The last thing he needed was to have himself caught where these men could extract justice with no repercussions or people to stop them. The men were far too distracted by their task to notice him.

Tyrion stepped closer to the fire, and immediately regretted his need to know when he saw one of the bundle lift in the man's arms, a small hand falling from the blanket the shape was rolled in, followed by brown hair slipping out of the wrappings. The man had seen many disgusting practices, but he was not expecting to come across Northern clans who worshipped R'hllor. He was not expecting _this_.

They were children. The clansmen were offering children to the fire, praying to R'hllor to make the dawn return and to extract justice on those who tried to bind them. They were offering the children as blood sacrifices to the Lord of Light, hoping he would honor blood for blood. For a Northern victory.

Tyrion turned and wretched into the bushes, then took off quickly, wanting the image to leave his head. The need to find his son was stronger in his stomach, for those could not be the children of Northern and Dornish men. They were most like the children of mixed unions. _Children like my son_. He thought, tears stinging his eyes.

He was becoming reckless in his walking, falling into the glow of the fire as he stumbled along in the dark steps of the courtyard, desperate to find some sort of indication where there might be weapons, which places they may have been hidden for later use by the rebellion.

The horizon was that of the burning apartments, everything the travelers had brought was burning in the flames. Swords, keepsakes, valuables. Tyrion wanted to fall down to his face and begin weeping now. He had endured slavery and death threats, but he could not bear the thought of losing his son.

And Sansa, where was she? His brave lady wife.

 _Oh Sansa_ , he thought. _Sansa! I feared losing my lady wife to my second child, but she…she could be lost to me because of our marriage. She will not deny me; she will not leave me behind._

But, oh, how he wished she would.

As Tyrion left the presence of the fanatic worshippers of R'hllor behind, a new cry filled his ear. It was the sound of men and pounding horse hooves. It was coming from behind him, and he thought for a moment that he had been found.

He turned, bracing himself for the arrow to hit his heart, but instead he was greeted by an army of men dressed in black cloaks and skins, riding black chargers. His mouth dropped as he saw more than half of the Night's Watch stampeding his way, it did not cross his mind that he might be trampled until the lead rider pulled his horse up sharply before the dwarf.

"Lord Tyrion?" A voice cried in the dark. Tyrion tilted his face upwards to look in the pudgy face of Samwell Tarly.

"Sam Tarly?" Tyrion asked.

He was one of the renowned maesters of Westeros, not to mention the Night's Watch, and a man of great knowledge and learning in the North. Tyrion once had the pleasure of sitting down with the man and speaking with him for hours about history and the men of lore. This was back when he and Sansa were in a happy union, when he could find some hours of joy in weddings. Sam and his permitted wife, Gilly, had sat with him and Sansa on several occasions, and Sansa and Gilly laughed about the two husbands' conversing about old and dead men.

"Where is Jon?" The larger man asked. Tyrion shook his head. "Do you not know?"

"I do…he…he is in the Great Hall with the other lords and sers. Take care, Ser Tarly, for there are armed Northern men guarding the doors."

"We know," he said.

"I wish I had the time to ask you how." Tyrion knew he should not delay them.

"We were flagged down by one of your trusted knights; perhaps he can inform you further about our intentions down so far from the Wall."

Podrick nudged a horse forward from within the group of horses. Tyrion's heart leapt into his throat when he saw the knight. "Where is my son?"

"Father?" A weary voice called from the saddle. The men of the Night's Watch began to move forward around the horse and rider, and around Tyrion. When the men had thundered past, Podrick threw his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. He paused to grab hold of the small rider who was sitting tucked into the front of the saddle.

"Oh, Benjen," Tyrion cried as Podrick set the boy to the ground. The lord ran toward his son, bringing him into an embrace, lifting him into his arms. He set several kisses on the boy's cheeks, fighting the wall of tears which threatened to weaken him further.

"Father," Benjen pushed against the lord. "What is happening?"

"Podrick?" Tyrion looked up to his faithful knight.

"There were men in the apartments next to us, m'lord," Podrick began. "They were going on and on about finding weapons, and were carrying burning torches. I sensed something was amiss, and escorted m'little lord from the buildings as soon as we could sneak past the men. It was not long before we left that the rooms began to burn."

"But the Night's Watch?" Tyrion set Benjen to the ground, holding his son by his shoulder, not wanting him to wander far.

"It seems as if one of the knights on patrol overheard a plot to have the King overthrown at this wedding, when the men were in the Dornish country. That it was time for the middle kingdoms to suffer, to truly know pain and hardship. Ser Tarly said he could not let go of the nagging feeling that something was about to go amiss, and he saw several ravens eating a dead wolf's corpse on his prayerful walk in the woods—he knew it was a sign from the gods, that he needed to go to his best friend and Prince's side."

"It is good he did," Tyrion agreed. "They came at a perfect time."

"What is happening?" Benjen pointed to the burning buildings in the distance.

"I will tell you later, Ben," Tyrion placed a kiss in his son's hair and ruffled the curls gently.

"But where is mum?" The boy asked. Tyrion looked down at his son, his heart pounding as he knew what he needed to do.

"I will go and get her, I will bring her back," Tyrion kissed the boy on his forehead, and pushed him back toward Podrick. "Take him, take him and begin the journey back to Casterly Rock. There is no need for you to stay here in danger."

"But I do not want to go, father, not without mum," Benjen insisted.

"You will do as you are commanded," Tyrion felt his throat burn. "Because I cannot lose you, my boy."

"M'lord?" Podrick asked as Tyrion turned to the burning horizon.

"I must get my lady wife, I must be sure she is safe," Tyrion looked back to his trusted knight. "I must do this myself."

"Then you will need this," Podrick turned to the saddle of the horse, grabbing hold of a shield bearing the Lannister's rearing red lion and a belt containing a dagger and its sheath. Tyrion inhaled heavily as he looked at the items his knight held out to him.

"What are you doing? Why must you have weapons?" Benjen looked at his father. Tyrion stepped forward, placing a kiss on his son's head once more.

"I love you, Benjen," Tyrion assured his son.

"Father?" Benjen cried. Tyrion fastened the belt about his middle, and took the large shield in hand. He then turned to begin his walk toward the battle zone.

"Father!" Benjen cried. He could not bear to look back, knowing that Podrick was no doubt holding his son back, lifting him into the saddle and obeying his commanding lord.

"I love you," Tyrion whispered, wiping at his eyes where tears were welling once more.

* * *

The flames were leaping from other portions of the castle when Tyrion arrived. The Night's Watch was in full force against the Northern clansmen, metal clanging rang in the air as swords met one another's broadsides. Arrows flew across the sky as archers took positions behind overturned tables and pillars. Tyrion drew the shield over his head, running forward through the fight, trying to decipher where the ladies had been brought.

He was looking about when he stumbled over something in the darkness, falling forward. He scrambled to his feet and turned to see that it was a wrist which had tripped him up; a small and delicate wrist, a small hand with dainty fingers attached. He dared to look at the body and saw the gentle curve of a woman. She had an arrow through her heart, her blank brown eyes staring into eternity as her golden hair blew gently in the drafts. Tyrion took several steps back as he took in the sight of the lady, a woman dressed in the soft brown and bright yellow, acorns worked into the patterns of the lady's skirt; a maid from the House of Smallwood.

Tyrion felt his heart leap into his throat as he turned back to the fight. If she was this far out from the battlefield she must have been fleeing. She had been shot down, most like by a wayward arrow. But if she had come this far, who was to say that Sansa had not tried to stride through the firefight? She was a mother and her young was in danger, she would take the moment to leap into the jaws of death in the hopes of clutching her young out of them. Arrows bounced off continuously on Tyrion's shield, and he had ducked a few times as he ran into the chaos to avoid several swinging maces and javelins.

Smoke was making it hard to see what was occurring in the skirmish before him, but he could not allow the decreased visibility to keep him from his mission. He needed to find his lady wife; he needed to be sure that she was alive and well. The last he had seen of her was her being dragged, undignified, through the dirt, sullying her brilliant dress, her blue eyes wide and filled with fright.

 _I wish I was a man like Garlan Tyrell, I wish I had been stronger, I could have saved her. I could have run to her and ripped her from their cruel hold._ He regretted every moment he spent angry with her that morning. He regretted taking her in the dark last night, climaxing inside of her and then leaving her to cry on her own.

The regrets and grief only drove him faster through the clanging swords and the war cries. He passed several more women running through the battle toward freedom, wishing them well in his mind. Hoping that they would be freed from the continued horror with no damage.

It was when he was watching one of the ladies run by that he was caught by the boot once more. He stumbled to his stomach, the shield falling beneath him. He looked back to see a knight with an arrow in his hip laying on the ground. He had grabbed hold of Tyrion, and was blindly fumbling for the weapon tied at his waist. Tyrion felt his heart quicken and he too sought the dagger at his hip. He tried to pull from the man's grip once more, but was unable. The man had hold of his dagger, and was pulling Tyrion toward him.

The dwarf was able to grab hold of his own blade, taking it in hand and angling his body toward the knight. When he was close enough he dove forward, sending the blade into the man's eye. He screamed, dropping his own weapon and reaching for his face. Tyrion took the opportunity to stab him once more, the man's blood covering his breeches and soiled tunic. The attacker was wounded enough that the smaller man was able to wrench free, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the shield once more.

He continued in his hurried search for his lady wife, who seemed nowhere to be found.

A member of the Night's Watch saved the dwarf from another assailant, this time the enemy was armed with a battle axe, by sending his sword into the man's neck, crumpling him forward and rendering him useless. He looked down at Tyrion from atop his horse for a moment; Tyrion sent an appreciative glance up to his savior.

He was amidst the heat of the battle and was surrounded by dozens of corpses, men and women, with no hope of seeing Sansa. He staggered toward the edge of the battlefield, an over turned table in his sights. A quick glance right and left assured him he could make the distance with his shield, a sprint he could make with little difficulty. He took a deep breath and then ran for it, ducking behind the makeshift shelter.

He paled as he scrambled to the other side.

Her face was white, streaked with mud and blood, her auburn hair falling out of its intricate braid. She was struggling for breath, and biting her lip, her eyes squeezing closed.

"Sansa?" Tyrion dove to her side.

"Ty…Tyrion?" She asked, looking up at him. "Is…is that you?"

"Sansa," he went to wrap his arms about her when he noticed what had slowed her movement.

Out of her right side near the curve of her hip sat an arrow. It was embedded upright, the feathered end protruding several inches above her skirts. Tyrion looked at the weapon in horror, taking his wife's hair in his hands, sidling close to her shoulders. He placed her head in his lap.

"Oh, Sansa," he cried.

"Tyrion," she reached up, touching his face gently. "I found you,"

"What happened?" He ran his palm along her cheek, choking back tears, trying to stay strong for her.

"I…I was running. I caught sight of Jon and Sam and…I think one of the men saw me and he…I was shot." She stated.

"I know, I know," he pushed her up a little more, settling under her shoulder blades, pulling her upper half to him, rocking her slowly.

"I was not sure if…I…I could not find Benjen," she said with tears in her eyes.

"He is safe, I found him with Podrick, I sent them north, to Casterly Rock," he petted her hair line, stroking her dirty hair.

"Oh…good…" she said, her eye line falling to his arms. "You are covered in blood. Are you hurt?"

"No, it is another man's blood. I am fine," he said. _Oh, why could you not be?_

"Do you think…do you think we will win?" She asked.

"I do not think anyone can win at this point, we would need to start over." He spoke gently. "I will go and get a maester, Sansa. I should go and do that…"

"No," she cried. "Please do not leave me,"

"I will not," he had made the move to rise, but planted himself back on the ground.

"Am I going to die?" She looked up at him, her glass eyes meeting his.

"No, I will make sure you will not die." He responded. "You are a Northern woman, stubborn and brave, you are going to live. You are going to survive. As I did when I got this scar,"

"I wanted to have another baby," Sansa said, blinking as tears fell down her cheeks. "I was going to have one, even if you wanted me to get rid of it."

"I did not mean it, Sansa, I meant nothing that I said to you this morning." He whispered.

"Do not lie, I know you did," she smiled up at him. "And I forgive you. You were angry, you have always been so angry, because your first family could not love you because of what you appear to be. But Benjen loves you, and I love you." Her eyes were lidded, her breathing becoming more labored.

"I love you, too," Tyrion said, tears were flowing down his cheeks, landing on her forehead, on her cheeks, mixing with her tears.

"You will be fine, when I leave," Sansa smiled. "You will be sure Benjen grows up big and strong."

"Sansa, you are going to return to me," Tyrion's tears flowed heavier, as he pulled her close.

"I should not have run out, I should have waited, I should have stayed with Shireen and Margaery, but I wanted to make sure my boy was alright. Was Benjen safe?"

"Yes, my love, do you remember that I told you that he is headed north with Podrick?" He asked.

"Oh, yes," her smile widened. "I love you, Tyrion, so dearly."

"Shhh, Sansa, you should save your strength." He kissed her forehead.

"I wish the stars were out, lighting up the sky," she murmured. "They are so beautiful to watch,"

"Yes, my love," Tyrion said. "Hush," he rocked her gently.

"Can you kiss me, I do not remember what you taste like, I do not remember your touch." Tears were filling her eyes.

Tyrion leaned forward and kissed her awkwardly, her face was upside down to his and it made caressing her mouth clumsy and difficult.

"I love you," she spoke again. Her eyes closed as she nestled her head into his lap. Tyrion pulled her close to his body, nestling his head into her auburn hair, the tears flowing from his cheeks into her beautiful hair.


	8. Between The World and the Gods- Sansa

Sansa awoke as the sun streamed into her eyes. Her head was pounding with a strong ache, and when she stretched upwards to see where she was a burning pain lit up her side. The room was blurry at first, and it took her several blinks to recognize where she was.

Was she waking after the birthing of her son? That was the last thing she remember, was her son…no it was her _asking_ about her son. Asking if he was living and breathing, if he made it out of the apartments that had burned—

Her eyes welled with tears as the memories of what occurred flooded her mind, the screams of the women as the doors burst open. It was the Northern men who threw them open, grabbing women left and right, sending them sprawling to their feet. A commotion could be heard outside the doors, and Sansa had gone forward with Margaery and Shireen to see what was happening about them.

And she had been running, she wanted to make it through the heat, she had grabbed a shield from the ground, had used it in front of her as she kicked up the mud created by spilled blood.

But she had not made it far enough. She was protecting one side of her body, but leaving the other open for attack. She had been pierced by an arrow.

Was this Dorne? Or was this where the old gods dwelled, is this where she would rest for eternity? She tried to move again, but the searing pain stopped her, caused her breath to stop. Where was she? She could not possibly be in Dorne, the castle had burned.

She turned her head to look to the left of her and saw a small table with clean wrappings, several bottles, and water. Oh, how she thirst for the water. Mayhaps it would clear the ringing in her head.

When she turned her head to her right she saw a figure curled up on a chair, a blanket drawn up to his chin. He was sleeping, his curly hair sticking out at angles, his chest's rise and fall could be seen under the blanket. He had dark circles under his eyes, and a couple days' growth of beard.

"Tyrion," she whispered, blinking away the tears from her eyes. The small plop of a droplet could be heard hitting the pillow. "Tyrion,"

Her throat was raw and burning, in need of drink, and the call came out as little more than whisper. How she wished she could speak louder, to wake him from his slumber. She remembered him; he was holding her, rocking her back and forth. She did not remember much of what she said, but she did remember she wanted to see the stars. She wanted to see the stars and have him kiss her once more because she thought she was breathing her last. Sansa felt more tears well in her eyes as the image of her husband weeping over her limp body filled her mind.

A rustle caused her to look over once more in hope, and he indeed was rising from sleep. His eyes opened, half lidded from a need for more rest. He looked blankly ahead, still returning to the land of the wakefulness.

She needed to try again.

"Tyrion," she whispered.

He looked over at her, a blank stare that he must have repeated time and again, waiting for her to wake or to pass. The unstable balance between the world and the gods. His green eyes swept over her face, and she could see the dawning which occurred when his rationale accepted that she was awake.

He slid eagerly from the chair, stumbling toward the bed, the mattress breaking his fall. His short stature only caused him to been seen from the waist up next to her, but it was enough for him to reach for her. Sansa pushed her arm slowly toward him, her muscles aching with every movement.

"Sansa?" he asked, his voice raspy and thick with emotion. "Sansa," he reached forward to smooth her hair.

She pulled her arm up toward her shoulder, wincing at the pain it gave her side. Tyrion noticed what she was attempting to perform and pushed aside the duvet to take hold of her hand. He pressed it to his lips, tears welling over his cheeks.

"Tyrion," she breathed.

"Do not waste your energy, Sansa," he commanded her. "Is there anything you are in need of? Anything I can command to have brought to you?"

"Water," she choked. Tyrion ran his hand along her hairline once more, then turned to quickly walk to the other side of the bed where the table was. He was quick to return to her right side, climbing up gently to sit next to her.

He leveraged her elbow as he helped her rise a little, Sansa let out a small hiss as her body doubled over. Tyrion ran his stubby hand over her back to comfort her, his hand reaching out to offer her the cup of water. She took it in both hands like a child, bringing it painfully slowly to her lips, tipping the cup upwards.

The water was a god's breath to her dry throat, encouraging the life to come back to her. Her throat hurt less, and a moment's subsidence of the pain in her head followed as she took more water into her mouth. How beautiful was this liquid which cooled her burning innards. She coughed at her next gulp, taking too much water into her mouth at once and causing it to go toward her airways and not her stomach.

"Careful, my love," Tyrion took the cup from her. "Slowly,"

She looked over at him with a small smile. The cough caused her side to burn furiously, but she felt better with the bit of water in her system.

"What…what…happ…" she struggled with her words.

"You are still tired, my love, you must rest," Tyrion let her drink several more gulps of water before pushing her to lay back down. "I will tell you what happened when you are better."

He pushed himself from the bed, going around to place the cup back on the little table. She turned her head to watch him, fearing he would exit the room.

"Do not leave me," her voice was hoarse and rough, but she was able to move her left arm with more confidence and strength, reaching out to him.

Tyrion smiled at her warmly, taking her hand in his. "I am not going to leave your side, Sansa," he promised her.

"Please do not," she breathed. Tyrion let go of her hand to climb upon the bed. She felt her heartbeat slow as he settled in next to her, his body pressed against hers tightly.

"I will not, my lady," he whispered into the crook of her neck.

"I need," Sansa reached for him.

"What?" He asked.

"A kiss," she said.

He smiled at her, propping himself up to lean over her and place his mouth on hers. His lips were sweet like wine, and his touch was gentle. She placed her left hand on his scarred cheek, her thumb rubbing over the marred skin. Tyrion caught her hand in his, squeezing it.

"Now rest, Sansa," he murmured. Sansa obeyed, laying back and shutting her eyes.

* * *

It was several days until she was better, and she spent most of the time sleeping. She always awoke to see Tyrion sitting in the chair next to her, a book balanced on his lap as he read, or a blanket wrapped about his body as he slept. He was there to hold her hand when the maester came to change her bandages; he was there to present her with water when she woke with a parched throat.

Sansa thought back to after Benjen was born. Her recovery was much shorter than this, but Tyrion had not come about often. He would check in on her, to be sure she was alive and breathing, to make sure that she was not without anything she wanted, but he was not there when she had woken up, he was not there to lay her to sleep.

Tyrion had abandoned her, and she was ashamed. She had wronged him by giving him a dwarfed son; she had broken his heart and shattered his dreams of raising a son who would be a valiant and strong knight. She was glad at first, that he was not there after she awoke from giving birth to her son; he would not know what to do with the tears that she shed every night over it.

Now Tyrion had come to her, had made sure he was there when she awoke, cradled her to sleep. He was her ever constant help. He read to her when she started staying awake for longer periods of time, but he was kind and did not read from the tomes of history, but rather the words of fantasy stories. Of maidens fair and knights gallant. His voice was steady and even, occasionally he looked up to meet her eyes. She enjoyed watching him at peace, relaxed.

The morning she was able to slowly rise from the bed, he helped her from the tangle of sheets and duvet, holding his hand out to her. She took it firmly in her grasp, leaning on him as she staggered to her weak feet. The floor was foreign to her body, and it took a few shaky steps before her limbs remembered how to walk. Tyrion held onto her hips tightly.

He led her shuffle out to the balcony, where he had commanded the staff to place a small meal for the two of them to share. He helped Sansa into her chair before taking his own. She blinked at him, wincing in the harsh sunlight she had been shielded from.

"Is my lady comfortable?" He asked.

"Yes, my lord," she replied.

"If you are in need of shade, tell me," he instructed her.

"I am well, the sun is hard on me, but I have missed it," she assured him.

Tyrion placed some citrus fruits onto her plate, adding a date cake to the pile. "If you are in need of eggs or meats, I can have them sent for."

"I am not very hungry, Tyrion, this is suitable for me."

He nodded his head, taking several date cakes for himself as well as a citrus fruit. She watched as his stubby fingers picked at the food, placing small nibbles into his mouth, but for the most part tearing the food into worthless bits on his plate. She settled back into the depth of her seat and observed his worry displayed in this manner.

"You should eat, Sansa," Tyrion looked up at her. "The maester said it is how you will gain your strength."

"How long was I asleep for?" Sansa asked.

"Four days," Tyrion responded. "I was afraid that you were going to stop breathing in that time. You were hit by an arrow in the side,"

"I remember," Sansa nodded her head.

"The shaft and blade missed any major parts inside your body, but it tore your skin and muscles deeply. The maester had to use many stitches to repair you." Tyrion replied.

"Oh," she said, winced as she leant forward. "How long has it been since the battle?"

"About three weeks and a half's time." He answered her.

"And what of Benjen?"

"What with Podrick riding with him, and none of our belongings, they are at Highgarden by now. He sent word by raven. He wanted me to be assured that our son was well."

"We should return as soon as we can," Sansa replied.

"We will. There is not much left of ours seeing as the apartments have burned."

"I am sorry, my lord,"

"What is there to be sorry for? You are alive, my wife. My prayers to the gods were answered." He reached out and placed a hand on Sansa's.

"What happened with…with Arya and Arianne?" She asked.

"The Knight's Watch showed at the castle, that was who freed the men and women. They fought for King Jon, and many Dornishmen and Northern clansmen were slain. When the next day dawned, the rest were bowing their knees and the damage had to be fixed," Tyrion sighed. "Jon had met Arya on the battlefield, fighting as best she could in her condition. She turned on Jon, her blades swinging round. Jon was sure she wouldn't strike him, said she was lowering her sword, her mouth turned into a cry and her head shaking…but…the…one of the men of the Knight's Watch did not recognize who she was in the dark, claimed he did not know she was a woman in the heat of the battle, he just saw Jon raising his sword to defend himself against a blade…and the knight drove his long blade into your sister's back."

"No!" Sansa cried, crumpling onto the table. Tyrion was quickly to her side, grabbing her arm, rubbing at the warm skin. "No, she could not have died. She was going to have a child, that child would have made her so much happier…"

"But would it have, Sansa?" Tyrion asked. "It is a tragedy, to be sure. Jon was rife with guilt and grief. He held your sister as she struggled. She begged for mercy, begging his forgiveness, asking for him to end it. He did."

"No," Sansa turned and grabbed hold of her husband about his shoulders, her face tucking into his neck. She shuddered with sobs, ignoring the pain in her side. "My sister is dead,"

"Jon sent her body North with the Knight's Watch to be brought to Winterfell. She might have lost her head, but her heart was always with your family's castle.

"Poor Jon," Sansa wept. "He must have…she was his favorite sister and he had to…"

"Shireen has been caring for him, he has been a wreck. He knew the decision was right, but his heart has shattered." Tyrion agreed.

"Take me home," she whispered into her neck. "Take me home and hold me and let us never open our eyes to the outside world again."

"Sansa," Tyrion rubbed the small of her back. "Sansa, that is not what we are to do, we are going to rebuild. We have made several treaties in Dorne among the Houses under the care of Jon. I have agreed to help the North rebuild their culture, to send whatever money we have left, to do what I could to give them what they needed."

"And Rickon?"

"Rickon will marry Lyanna Mormont." Tyrion said. "And will become the Warden of the North. Bran is to marry a free woman, as was arranged, for now."

"Do you think it will change?"

"It might," Tyrion turned his head to kiss her cheek. "Jon has agreed that we are to be less rigid with our plans, that we need to make room to expand and to grow."

"And what of Trystane?"

"He is to be the Prince of Dorne once again, commanding his people in the way that they wish to be commanded in. His sister Arianne will stand trial for her crimes, and she will either be banished to Essos or killed."

"I do not want to see any more bloodshed," Sansa shuddered. "I am tired of this way of life."

"It will change," Tyrion promised. "We will make sure that our sons will do what is right. When you are right in body, perhaps…I mean…we should have another child."

Sansa pulled from his grip to look him in the green eyes. He smiled at her gently. She wanted to ask him why the change, but she knew that it was too early. Too much was still going on; she could not push him away so readily if he was eager to change.

"You should eat, Sansa," Tyrion encouraged her. "Before the maester comes to look at your wound. He wants to remove your stitches soon."

Sansa hugged him to her body. She kissed the side of his neck. "I love you Tyrion, and I always did."

"And I love you, Sansa, and I had. I just did not know how to love you," he said. He pulled from her and kissed her roughly on the lips, before turning from her and going to his seat to return to his morning meal.

* * *

The wooden door of the carriage provided a place for Sansa to rest her forehead as she looked out over the country side. Her side was far less painful that it had been when she woke several weeks earlier, but every jar of the wheels over a rock caused her to wince in pain. Beneath the protection of her bodice the wound was healing , but would leave a roaring red scar across her side.

Tyrion did his best to give her comfort on the journey, often calling for the driver to stop so that she could have a moment's rest without further irritation. His attention was foreign to her, but she was glad for his watchful eye. He grew increasingly more affectionate; a side of him revealed that she had once forgotten.

"Do you need a rest, my lady?" he asked from across the way where he lounged on his padded bench.

"No, I wish to get home sooner rather than later, and with all the stops I fear it will be a year before we've returned." She smiled shyly.

"We are close," he insisted. "Having sent many of the servants and wait staff ahead of us has increased our speed, and it being only the two of us without anything to weigh us down; we have nearly halved our time." He assured her.

"I cannot wait to see Benjen, I am sure he has changed greatly."

"It has only been two months or so, Sansa," Tyrion sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bench.

"He is at that age when they change so quickly," she insisted. "I hope that he has been kept up in his studies, that Podrick has not allowed him to revert to ignoring his manners and neglecting his sums and letters."

Tyrion took her hands in his, placing a kiss on the curve of her thumb. "I trust that Podrick has taken great care of our child."

Sansa nodded absently, biting her lip. Tyrion reached forward, cupping her cheek in his palm. His thumb stroked her high cheek bone as his other hand squeezed her fingers. "What troubles you, my love?"

"Will he be angry at me? That I left him for so long? What if he thinks I am a bad mother, for allowing you to send him off to his room as he did, for not fetching him for the wedding—"

"Your son would not be here, if it weren't for his absence at the wedding," Tyrion looked at her with his serious green eyes. Sansa shook her head.

"I should have made sure that he was comfortable for the evening, I should have kissed him goodnight—"

"Sansa, this grief and guilt is unnecessary and ill-productive. Your son is going to love you." He stretched upwards to kiss her on her cheek. "You did well by allowing me to send him away…"

"What did you see?" His eyes were filled with that far off glance of a story or memory trapped in his mind, and she wanted to know. "Tell me, what did you see?"

"I…" Tyrion opened his mouth, but stopped with a frown. "I am not sure if it is right to tell you, Sansa, if it would only serve to upset you more."

"What I do not know now, I will discover later," she insisted. "I wish to have you tell me, here, where I can react with as little decorum and as much emotion as I would not be allowed in a public sphere."

"Very well, I was sent through the air passageways which were installed at various points in the great hall in the hopes that I could have luck once again and escape to go for help or find weapons. One of the shafts was located right behind the throne, and Prince Trystane assisted me in escaping," Tyrion bowed his head. "I stumbled into the Night's Watch not long after I left from the castle, but before I found them, I saw several Northern clansmen who worshipped R'hllor offering sacrifices to the Lord of Light. They were…they were child sacrifices."

"No," Sansa felt her cheeks tingle as her head spun.

"When I confessed such things to King Jon several mornings after the end of the skirmish, I learned that several children of intermarried houses had been…sacrificed in hopes that the god would bless the men in the night, would lead them to victory over their enemies, over the middle kingdoms." Tyrion sighed.

"Do you…do you think they would have sacrificed Benjen?" She asked. Tyrion looked at their joined hands, remaining silent for several breaths.

"I…I think they would have seen it as a blessing, for one with such deformities as him to be sacrificed especially to the gods, a boy so special of mixed…mixed _royal_ blood. For you are the Princess of the North to them, Sansa." Tyrion squeezed her hands tightly.

"I grieve for the mothers who have found that their children are dead for such a senseless cause." Sansa responded, her voice heavy with emotion. "But I must share that grief with peace and joy that our son was spared. That the gods spoke to you, Tyrion, in their own way, to send our son away. I am sorry if that makes me seem selfish, but I do not know if I would have survived if…if I had known that he was gone."

"No, Sansa, I do not think you are selfish. I will not hold you at fault for that crime." Tyrion shook his curly head. "You are a good mother, as fierce and wise as your mother before you."

"Except I survived this wedding," Sansa doubled over, her face falling into her hands. Tears weighed heavily on her eyes as she blinked them away down her cheeks.

"Sansa," Tyrion's hand was on the back of her head. "Come, my wife, come and sit beside me and let me comfort you."

Sansa rose from her side of the carriage and stumbled to his, falling onto the seat and into his arms. He held her close. "Let the ghost of the past haunt you no more, Sansa. We are being presented a new Westeros, a new world of which we will no longer be angry with one another, where Houses will not be forced to marry and remain miserable. There will be no terror of Arya repeated because the king wished it so,"

"There will still be unhappy unions," Sansa responded.

"Perhaps they will find happiness in the end," he offered her. "But you must not focus on this, Sansa, you must place hope in the belief that most marriages will be offered through the wisdom of families with the hope of bettering their culture instead of weakening them."

Sansa leaned her head on his shoulder, smiling under the touch of her husband as he brushed out her hair with his short fingers. "Were Shireen and her child living?"

"Yes," Tyrion took her hand in his, tucking her elbow into the crook of his arm and bearing her weight upon him. "She was shaken, but she was able to keep her baby."

"It is sad to think that Lord Willas lost his child," she frowned. "It would have been my little niece or nephew, I could have seen it at Highgarden. We could have gone together. Arya refused to see me, the few times I visited while she was there, but Lord Willas would not have kept the baby from me, I do not think."

"He is saddened over this, and while many wish him to marry again, he may abstain from any thought for years to come," Tyrion answered.

Sansa fell silent as the carriage swayed back and forth. The rocking with Tyrion bracing her body was less pain inducing and rather soothing to her scattered nerves. The need to ask him, to clarify what he meant when he uttered the statement weeks prior, was burning in her throat, but she was afraid to voice it.

"What is it you are thinking, my Wolf?" Tyrion looked over at her. She bit her lip, trying to keep the words inside, trying to be the submissive good wife. "I will not be angry with you. I have been angry for too long."

"Did you mean what you said at our breaking of fast, our first proper one, those weeks ago," the words poured forth.

"Concerning which thing, my wife?"

"Having more children?" She asked.

"When you are well enough again, Sansa," Tyrion cradled her hand in his. "I will fuck you as you wish me to, I will be sweet and gentle, the Knight of Roses, and I will give you a child."

"If you were to be gentle, my lord," Sansa flushed as she looked at him. It had been too long since she had asked him, and she did use to ask him frequently. "If your touch is light and your movements slow, would you lie with me tonight?"

"Will you not be too tired?" Tyrion asked.

"I wish to be with you, as I remembered how we were." She answered him.

"Then I will fuck you deeply and softly, my lady," Tyrion agreed. Sansa smiled shyly.

Tyrion looked up at her, his green eyes scanning her face, before he leaned in and began to kiss her. His touch was light at first, a mere ghost on her lips. But then he turned and began to kiss her more fervently, his mouth pressing access to hers. The taste of heady wine filling her mouth as he pulled at her lips, danced his tongue with hers. She grabbed for him in their embrace, ignoring the ache in her side as she leaned over, her mouth pressing against his.

"Sansa," he pulled away from her. "My want of you has never burned greater, but you are not in a state where I can fuck you on our journey."

"I just want you to kiss me," she answered. Tyrion leaned forward and caught hold of her mouth again.

"I do miss the practice of it," he smiled, looking into her eyes once more.

The two began a soft, intimate embrace of tongues and lips, hands fighting for whatever barely modest purchase they could find on one another's bodies. A firm knock on the carriage door finally interrupted them. Sansa pushed from Tyrion, wiped her mouth and adjusted her loosened bodice. Tyrion straightened his jerkin before commanding the door be opened.

"M'lord?" Podrick's round face appeared behind the wood.

"Are we home?" Sansa asked with joy, standing to her feet a bit too quickly. Tyrion's hand on her waist and bum kept her from falling entirely backwards.

"It seems we have arrived at Casterly Rock," Tyrion agreed. "My lady has been…asleep for a bit too long."

Sansa looked back at him with a coy smile.

"Ser Pod?" A small voice called out from the yard. "Have they returned?"

"My boy!" Sansa cried out in happiness, staggering forward, barely giving Podrick the time to help her from the carriage to the ground. "Oh, Benjen," she cried.

Benjen was standing in the yard, his auburn curls longer than she remembered. A smile was on his square face, his green eyes lighting up.

"Mum!" He cried, his waddling run quickened him to her.

Sansa stiffly dropped to her knees, paying no mind that her lilac colored cotton gown would be ruined in the dirt. She held her arms out to him, wanting to welcome her son home.

"Pay mind, Ben, your mother is still in pain!" Tyrion cried with worry as he came to the door of the carriage.

Benjen slowed quickly, walking into his mother's embrace. Sansa wrapped her arms about him, tucking his head into the curve of her neck. She felt tears streaming down her face as she cradled the back of her son's head. She rocked him against her body, pulling him tightly to her.

"Oh, Benjen,"

"Mum, I missed you!" Benjen cried as he unwrapped himself from her tight embrace so he could look into her eyes. His green eyes were filled with concern as he touched her cheek gently. "I was worried, when father wrote us to tell us that you had an accident during the escape. I…I went to the godswood every day and prayed before the heart tree."

Sansa kissed him on his square cheek, wiping away the few tears that had sprouted from his face. "That is good, my son. The gods heard your prayers. They made me well."

"I am so glad you are back, I missed going to the coast with you to look for shells and to play in the water. Podrick is too serious about it, he will not go digging with me for the hard to find shells or toss me into the water." Benjen whispered.

"Podrick had a big job to fill in my absence, having to be your protector and mother and father all in one." Sansa smoothed his hair, sniffing away her own tears as she smiled at her son's anecdote.

"Be gentle to your mother, Benjen," Tyrion joined their side. "She has had a long journey,"

"Father!" Benjen weaseled from his mother's grasp and flew into Tyrion's arms. Tyrion hugged him back, placing a kiss into the crown of his son's head.

"Benjen, my son," Tyrion murmured. "Did you behave and obey Ser Podrick?"

"I did, though going to sleep was very hard. He does not read from the tomes as you do, and he pronounces some of the names wrong," Benjen continued in his critique of Podrick's impromptu parenting attempts.

"I am sure Podrick did his very best," Sansa insisted as her son returned to her side.

"I will attest that he did try," Benjen gave a hesitant seal of approval.

"And you shall try at your first attempt of hosting," Tyrion instructed the boy. "You mother is tired and in need of something to eat, Benjen. We can speak more when we are inside and she has been given food and drink."

"Yes, father," Benjen hugged Sansa once more, placing a kiss on her mouth. "We will make sure you are given the best breads and wines in Casterly Rock." He insisted. "Because the ones we love deserve the best."

Sansa laughed softly as she watched her son walk forward. Tyrion stepped to her side, holding out a hand for her to take to rise to her feet, but Sansa reached past it and took hold of his jerkin in a fist. He stepped closer to her, placing a messy kiss on her lips, his knuckles brushing her cheeks lightly.

"He is right," Tyrion answered. "The ones we love deserve the best,"

"I have already been given it," Sansa kissed his mouth once more.

"We must go, come!" Benjen commanded as he stopped in his journey to the gates of the castle.

"I am helping your mother rise, son," Tyrion scolded him.

"Why did you not inform me that the Lady of Casterly Rock needed aid?" Benjen ran back to the two. Sansa smiled as her son held out his short hand.

Taking both her husband and her son's hands in hers she rose slowly and gracefully from the ground. Tyrion brushed off the knees of her skirts and straightened them with his right hand, his left firmly gripping hers.

"Let us walk in together, return to our home as a family," Sansa smiled.

Benjen pulled them forward, Sansa walking slowly with Tyrion by her side, her hands held by her small pride.

When they entered the entrance hall, servants took to greeting Sansa, several of her maids in waiting coming forward to escort her to her room to change into more comfortable and less travel weary clothing. Tyrion sent her on his way, placing a kiss on the back of her hand before she went.

"I love you," she whispered to him.

"I love you," he asserted, "Now hurry so I may drink in your presence as you drink in your wine."

"Yes, my lord husband," she bowed her head.

One of her maids took her hand and led her forward, Sansa following quickly. She glanced behind her shoulder before leaving the great hall to view her husband once more. He watched her with a warmth in her eyes she thought would never return.

Fire burned and destroyed, but it also purified. And the fire she had feared was dying had sprung to life with more strength than she could have ever imagined. She felt it coursing through her blood and rushing up her cheeks. She was glad that at the true end of the harsh winter that she was to be consumed with heat, kept alive and well in a place she long thought lost.


	9. Epilogue - Tyrion

The howling of the winds outside of Winterfell were beginning to slow and quiet as the sun rose higher in the sky. Tyrion was positive that if he looked out the window at this moment he would spot soft snowflakes falling, dancing in the pinkish orange rays of the dawn. The hot springs piped through Winterfell and the furs keeping he and Sansa warm from the winter's cold.

But as the winds quieted, Sansa only grew louder. He was before her now, kneeling with her backside resting on his kneecaps, her calves supported on his shoulders. He was push in and out of her warm woman's cleft, a sensation she was vocally affirming pleasant.

Tyrion could feel himself build, he was nearing his end and it was causing him to want to move faster, push into her harder and deeper. He had been holding her ankles with his hands over him, a support so he did not fall onto her rounding belly. Now he pushed them aside, scooting closer to her, her rear sliding onto the tops of his thighs.

She smiled at him as her moaning ceased with his shifting position. He wanted to be sure he did not fall atop her, wanted to give him room between her body and his. He settled one hand next to her chest, his other rubbing her child filled stomach as it passed.

She took his cheeks in her hands, pulling him closer to her. "I am not that large yet," she hummed.

He grinned down at her, shaking his head. "I just wish to be careful,"

"We have done this plenty times before," she laughed. "And when I was much larger. If you take too much care about me and not enough on pleasuring me, we will not meet our ends in time."

He leaned forward and kissed her, beginning his thrusts again. He reached one hand downwards, his arm resting on her soft tummy as he went to encourage her small hill to bring her to an end. Sansa tensed when he touched it, reaching out quickly to grab his hand.

"Hold and kiss me," she begged. The touch was too hard on her brimming body; he could see it in her pained expression. He locked his fingers into hers, taking her other hand in his free one, twisting those fingers together.

He held her hands and kissed her deeply as he continued to push into her at quick speeds, their bodies resonating against one another. She lost control in her kiss, was beginning to moan from the side of her mouth. Tyrion smiled, placing a kiss on her jaw as he pushed his hips flush against her, rubbing up and down.

Sansa began to tremble, her body bucking up against his to bring him deeper and harder into her. He fought the panic inside of him that he would hurt her, or his child—but she was right. They had done this before.

"Oh, Tyrion," she cried aloud as her body braced against his, her walls pull against his cock. She leaned forward and took his mouth in hers, kissing him. Letting go of his hands, she began to caress his face.

Tyrion's arms planted sturdily next to her as he took advantage of her end against his manhood. He pushed against her a little quicker, less deeply, and it was not long before the familiar push of his seed filled his loins.

"Sansa, Sansa," he moaned as he pushed deeply into her hips. Their panting filling the air, interrupted by the occasional smack of lips.

He sat upwards, running his hand over her belly; the skin was soft and as white as the snow outside, the only blemish was the scar about his fourth finger's length on her side from the accident years before.

"We are going to have to rise them soon," he said, only wanting to run his fingers along her sex until he was ready to fuck her all over again.

"I am sure they have risen themselves." Sansa replied as she pulled herself onto her rear. Her belly was beginning to betray her condition, but she still seemed as elegant and graceful as normal.

Tyrion sidled in between her legs to kiss her once more, his cock now cold in the cool morning air, no longer warmed by her body, its slick condition lending to the chill he felt in his muscles.

"We should dress," Sansa turned to move, but Tyrion grabbed her shoulder.

"No, let us beg off sick and fuck some more," he pleaded.

"There is time for that later." She insisted, kissing him deeply once more and then turning to stand from the bed. Tyrion groaned, falling back on the mattress.

He watched Sansa as she searched about the room for their small clothes, her pregnant body making it hard for her to bend over to fetch her shift and his small pants.

"I will get them, Sansa," he insisted, but she squatted down and grabbed both garments.

"I am glad to be bathed this morning," she said as she pulled her shift over her head, quickly covering the rest of her body which was covered in goose pimples. She threw his small clothes at him; he caught them before they landed atop his head.

Standing, Tyrion pulled the garment up his stunted legs and over his hips. She returned to the side of the bed, searching among the sheets for her dressing gown which they had thrown off at the beginning of their tryst the night before. Tyrion interrupted her, standing on the bed made him just a slight head taller. He leaned down to kiss her on the mouth, his hands running over her belly again.

"We could request to be bathed together…" Tyrion commented.

"There will be servants present," she shoved his shoulders playfully. "Besides, I do not wish to spend the entire wedding having my…" she flushed.

"You do not want my seed coming from you all morning?" Tyrion laughed. He enjoyed making his wife pink. She had loosened once more, his sexual ease spreading to her antics in the bedroom, and her tongue when he was fucking her nice and hard, but she still pinkened when she had to speak of anything outside of those heated moments.

"Yes, my lord, if you must be so vulgar," she turned on him.

The sound of running feet could be heard outside their bed chamber, and Tyrion groaned. "It is over."

She looked back at him, her hair gathered about the nape of her neck, her fingers running through them. "You will be drunk on wine and I will be high in spirits, you seem to forget that weddings often mean you get precisely what you want." She teased as she neared him once more, her face leaning in as she smiled.

Tyrion laughed, leaning forward to kiss her once more. "I do always seem to forget."

"Now hush," she kissed him once more, "There is no need to spoil small ears with your perversions."

"If it is of my blood, it is spoiled already," he caught sight of her dressing gown tucked under the sheets at his feet and leaned down, tossing the cloth to her.

A loud knocking came at the door, the sound of a tired septa crying out on the other side. "I tried my best, m'lord, m'lady, but there was no sleeping later had."

Sansa smiled over at Tyrion warmly before commanding. "You may open the door."

The wood flew open on its hinges and in ran Benjen with a whoop. Behind him came a smaller boy, just beginning to walk with more confidence and finesse.

"Father, did you see, it is snowing! There is snow upon the ground like there is not at Casterly Rock!" Benjen cried. "Gerion and I wished to wake you earlier but Septa Sylva would not permit us."

"Your mother and I were sleeping," Tyrion glanced over to his wife with a sly smile. "We needed to rest a bit more before the wedding this afternoon."

"Snow!" Gerion cried as he wobbled to his mother.

Sansa picked the boy up in her arms, kissing him softly on the cheek. She settled him over her pregnant belly, combing out his straight locks. He had taken after her stature, a normal man's, but had the golden hair and striking green eyes of his father and the handsome face of the Lannisters. His height and hair texture was what marked Sansa as his mother.

"Hello my baby," she kissed him on the cheek once more.

"Snow!"

"Yes, there is snow. But before you are permitted to go and play in it, you must be bathed and dressed. We will go out early into the courtyards before the breaking of fast to play." Tyrion commanded his children. Benjen's excitement grew frustrated as he was expected to rein it in.

"Yes, father,"

"Now go," Tyrion said. Septa Sylva stepped forward to take Gerion from Sansa's arms, but the mother called for her eldest son, now a boy of nine, to her side.

"You did not kiss me good morning," she mock scolded him, kneeling down to run her fingers through his curly locks. He leaned in to kiss her good morning, before turning quickly.

"I must hurry, mother, so that I can be ready for the snow!" He cried before beginning his waddle jog down the hallway back to his bed chambers.

"I am sorry m'lord, m'lady," Septa Sylva curtsied with Gerion in her arms.

"Nonsense, it is always pleasant to see my sons," Tyrion insisted. The septa curtsied again and left, shutting the door behind her.

"I hope my next son has blue eyes," Sansa responded, placing her hand on her belly.

"My Benjen has Northern blood within his Imp stature, what with his lusting for the snow as I lust for you. Besides, you could always whelp a girl," Tyrion smiled as she returned to his side.

"I suppose, though you would be on me as soon as possible, meaning I would have a son to follow with all that lusting," she teased him. Tyrion grabbed her hands in his, pulling her close to kiss her again.

"We should go and bathe before our existent sons raise havoc due to us slowing down their chance to play in the snow."

Sansa smiled at him, turning to meet her maids in the dressing chambers, as Tyrion watched her go with contentment in his heart.

* * *

Tyrion pulled the fur cloak tightly about his shoulders as he stepped out into the open frigid air behind Sansa and his two sons. Dressed thickly in furs, Benjen went running down the trampled pathways that servants created across the courtyard and went headlong into the accumulating snow. Sansa held Gerion on her hip, walking after her son, her auburn hair flowing loosely in the wind.

Tyrion watched as Sansa stepped gracefully into the drifts which had grown to her midcalf and set down the equally bundled toddler into the white powder. She reached into the snow with her gloved hands and began to pack it between her two fists, smiling mischievously toward her eldest. When she had formed the snow into a ball she threw it at Benjen, light enough for him to not be injured, but with enough force that he would know she had thrown something. He turned on his short legs, a look of surprise widening his green eyes.

"Mum!"

"I hit you with a snowball," she added proudly, turning to Gerion and building him a little seat in the drifts.

"How did you do that?" The boy came to her side.

"You take the snow in your hands like this," Sansa scooped up more snow into her palms, "And squeeze it between your fists."

Benjen took snow into his small hands and began to pack it, but his grip was too strong and the snow crumbled into useless grains.

"You must be gentle enough so as not to crush it." Sansa instructed. "Be sure to mold it with your hands, but give it mercy, so as not to squeeze it."

She cupped her hands around her son's, scooping them into the snow. As Benjen made his fist, she ghosted his touches, giving guidance to his hands. Tyrion watched the boy proudly hold up his small snowball with a wide grin.

Before Sansa could stop his arm, Benjen loosed the object toward his younger brother, hitting the boy in the shoulder. Gerion paused for a moment, and then began to cry. Sansa was quick to pull him awkwardly into her lap. "Benjen, your brother is not old enough to play this roughly."

Tyrion looked over to his son and saw that the boy looked upset at his actions, his face flushing as his breath sent out more frequent tufts of mist from his lips. "I am sorry!"

"It was an accident," Sansa responded gently. She turned to look at Tyrion. "Perhaps your father would be willing to come over and play with us."

Tyrion's eyes widened as he looked over at her, wanting to shake his head. He had not grown up in the snow drifts of Winterfell, snow was cold and wet and foreign to him. It was pretty outside of a window, but he was not sure he liked its presence much closer.

"Come, Tyrion," Sansa held out her hand. And with those gentle blue eyes, he could not resist.

He climbed into the snow next to her; she placed her soothed son back into his snow chair. She then scooped her hands into the snow and quickly fashioned another weapon, this time launching it at her husband. He let out a cry in protest, standing to his feet in the drift, and leaning over to fashion his own. He was quickly pelted by a smaller ball launched by Benjen. When he had perfected the shape of his own artillery, he was caught in a crossfire between Sansa and his son.

"I feel betrayed by my own blood!" Tyrion cried in fake dismay. "Benjen, your mother was the first to launch her attack, why then would you wage war on an ally? She attacked me as well. Let us join our forces against her."

"But I am his mother!" Sansa protested.

Benjen looked between the two with wide eyes. It was when his gaze lingered on his father, that Tyrion knew his choice. He nodded his head and both launched their weapons at Sansa. She let out a small shriek and stood, running off and gathering more snow as she went. Her footsteps sent snow flying as she went, and Tyrion and Benjen were hot on her trail.

It was when Margaery passed with Tommen that the small family stopped their gaming, Sansa, Benjen, and Tyrion gasping for breath. Sansa took Gerion into her arms from his snow seat where he had taken to digging small holes about him, throwing the snow this way and that in his own invention of a game.

"We were wondering when you would appear in the halls to join a House or two on their way over to the breaking of fast, but I see that you are preoccupied with your own celebration," Margaery noted. She held her small daughter by the hand, her belly rounder than Sansa's with another child.

"We were just on our way," Sansa brushed her hair off of her neck. "The children wanted to see the snow."

"My wife's direwolf blood is strong in them," Tyrion stepped out from the snow, shaking it from his furs and turning to brush some out of his son's hair.

"Good morning, Aunt Margaery, Uncle Tommen," he bowed politely.

"And good morning to you, young Lord Ben," Tommen stepped over to ruffle the boy's hair. "How is my dear nephew today?"

"The snow is really exciting!" The boy jumped on his short legs.

"Indeed, perhaps during the ceremony you can come out here with your cousins and the other children and play some more." Margaery smiled down at the boy.

"I do not think Septa Sylva would allow me to,"

"I will be sure Septa Sylva will allow you to on this special occasion," Sansa interrupted. "You did not say good morning to your cousin Olenna, now do so."

"Good morning, Olenna," He said to the young girl. She waved to him shyly, rubbing her hands in her cheeks.

"You remember cousins Benjen and Gerion from this summer when we visited Aunt Sansa and Uncle Tyrion?" Margaery's fingers danced in her daughter's tawny rich hair. The girl responded by shying into her mother's skirts. "You should befriend them now, as you will be playing with them after the meal."

"You do well to befriend your cousin Benjen," Tyrion laid his hand on his son's shoulder. "He will be sure the other boys do not pick on you."

"Yes, that is right. You will be practice in the case that my mother has a little sister for me," Benjen smiled down at her.

"I am sure we can speak more when we get to the feast, let us go," Sansa instructed, pushing her son along, Gerion tucked in her arm. "Lead the way, my fearless lion." She instructed her son.

Tyrion looked up at his wife with a kind smile. She raised her eyebrows at him in expectancy.

"What is it I am missing?" He asked.

"You are a lord, after all, and you are expected to lead your lady into the hall," she teased him.

"Ah, yes," Tyrion cocked his elbow out toward her. She wrapped her arm about it, squeezing gently. Tyrion followed after his eldest, a warmth spreading through his body and chasing away the sting of the cold.

* * *

"I am glad to be indoors once more," he shuddered as he and Sansa stepped out of the growing afternoon and into the great hall. Servants took their outer furs, leaving the lord and lady in their proper attire. Sansa was wearing a ruby colored gown with gold embroidery about the bodice. Her rich underskirt was gold in color and swept across the floor as she walked. Tyrion himself was clothed in a wine red doublet with large gold buttons down the front engraved with crouching lions; his sleeves were adorned with a gold thread palmette pattern. His dress again looked better than he did, but he supposed that was to be expected when he was the scarred Imp.

He took Sansa's hand in his as they were introduced to the hall as Lord and Lady Lannister, and escorted to the table on the dais. His wife proudly rested her free hand on her belly as she moved through the crowd. They had not been in such company since Sansa began to show in her third pregnancy, and both decided it would be a subtle way of officially announcing the pregnancy if she did not keep it hidden. It was a child, after all, and not their first. There was less to do, and Sansa did want more lion pups even if she teased Tyrion about his insatiable appetite for her.

Sansa and Tyrion paid their respects to the new husband, Sansa's grown brother, Rickon Stark, and the beautiful maiden Lyanna Mormont. She was a good few years older than her husband, but with the renewed pride in the North, so she was content to wait until Rickon was deemed ready for a wife.

Sansa leaned over and placed a kiss on her brother's cheek. Tyrion took Lyanna's hand in his and placed a chaste kiss on the back of it. He wished her happiness and many fine sons. She thanked him. Rickon smiled down at Tyrion when the man came to shake his hand.

"My goodbrother, it is good to see you well,"

"And you, Lord…King Rickon," Tyrion bowed his head.

"It is just Rickon to you," the boy insisted. "You have treated my sister well. I have never seen her happier. And I see you have another son on the way. Congratulations, I will be sure to come to Casterly Rock when he is born."

"It would be an honor. As for you, I wish you happiness and many sons." Tyrion answered. "I pass on my thanks from my sons, for having your ceremony at Winterfell; they enjoyed the snowfall."

"It felt a proper Northern wedding out there underneath the heart tree in the godswood," the new king in the north smiled. "I am not sure how my Southren brethren enjoyed it, and I am sure the Dornishmen were cursing me the whole while, but Lyanna and I found it appropriate."

"And so it was." Tyrion nodded. "We will forget the cold with the good food and the heady wine soon enough. Many men will have their women tonight as you shall have yours. You will understand the comfort of a woman's body in the coldest of night's soon enough, Rickon."

"And I will be sure to enjoy it," Rickon let out a small laugh.

"Come, my lord," Sansa spoke to Tyrion, holding out her hand to him. "We have several more people to greet before we officially take our seats."

"Blessings to you both, again, Lord and Lady Stark," Tyrion bowed swiftly before taking his wife's hand and walking with her down the dais.

The two stopped next at the seats Jon and Shireen sat in. Shireen invited the two around their table to embrace both of them. Jon kissed Sansa on the cheek heartily, as Rickon had, and leaned down to take Tyrion in a brotherly embrace.

"How is your new child?" Sansa asked as Shireen took her in an embrace again.

"Well, Ned is adjusting to not having his mother's attention all the time, but he thinks his new sister is a bright child." She smiled.

"What did you name the girl?"

"Lyanna, after Jon's mother," Shireen answered. "I was considering naming her Selyse after mine, but it is still much too fresh in my heart."

"I will eternally be sorry for your loss, my lady," Tyrion offered. Jon wrapped his arm about his wife's shoulders, kissing her on her greyscaled cheek.

"We all had our losses that day, but it is important to their memories that we grow stronger in the hardship and make sure the same mistakes are not repeated once more." Jon answered. "Stannis was a wise man, but he was set in the ways of tradition and control. I think those ideas have harmed us for too long, it is time we begin to reconsider some of our practices."

"But we are not here for political meetings," Shireen rolled her dark eyes. She stepped forward to Sansa, putting her hands on the woman's round belly. "You are with child again, I see."

Sansa looked down to Tyrion with a wide smile. "Yes, I am overjoyed. I am only about four months through, so I still have a time to go until I am as large as Lady Margaery."

"It is good to see Houses that were barren begin to grow." Shireen agreed. She placed a hand once more on the woman's protruding stomach. "I wish you the best."

"You will come and visit us during the course of the feast? You must!" Sansa insisted.

"We would be more than delighted. I have a couple ideas I wish to run by one of my advisers," Jon winked at Tyrion with a sly grin.

"I promised my wife I would not speak politics tonight," Tyrion held up his hands. Sansa began to walk away, but Tyrion stayed for a moment, leaning toward the king. "However, tomorrow is a different day and no longer a wedding and all will be done with women and wine and not wishing to move their bodies. We should meet for a late breaking of fast and speak. I have several maps I managed to tuck away of new routes to be built, as well as possible borders to be drawn in regards to treaties and the like,"

"I will take you up on your offer, my goodbrother." Jon smirked.

"You two are terrible," Shireen teased. "Now go, be off with your wife before she grows suspicious of your intentions." She shooed Tyrion away.

Tyrion left the two to join his wife at their table several seats down. She had taken her seat and was watching him approach with a smile on her mouth. "Your third son is in want of food,"

"I find it entirely unfair that the gods allow you to feel him before I can," he rolled onto his tiptoes, using the chair for balance to place a wet kiss on her cheek.

"You should be content that you do not have to deal with the rest of this," Sansa rolled her eyes. He patted her hand.

"I will be content, then, my lady wife," he responded. He took to the seat next to her, reaching for the goblet of wine before him.

As he began to drink he watched the Stark woman next to him. She had the softness about her which caused her to shine in her days with child. Her cheeks had glowed as prettily tonight as they did when she carried his two previous children. Her blue eyes, bright and cheerful, watched the various lords and ladies as they took to their seats, her light eyebrows rising as she spotted a couple she wished to greet later that evening. Her soft lips were pinker from the cold air, and being kissed so rigorously the past few days, and they parted to reveal a beautiful smile.

Her hand rested on her belly which was larger than he remembered in her previous pregnancies at this time. Sansa assured him that she was well, it was to be expected when a lady carried a child more than twice. When he was observing her rounding breasts, she caught him watching.

"We have just made it to the great hall and already your mind is filled with its perversions," she pinched his arm. He swatted her away.

"I was just admiring your beauty, my wife," he vowed, holding his hand up as he made the oath.

"Whatever you say, my lord husband, must be what is it," she said with a wrinkled nose. "I may just be too tired tonight for many embraces, with all the playing we did in the snow."

"I have patience, my wife, you will succumb to me sometime," he winked at her. Sansa was laughing at his gesture when she jerked upward, letting out a small gasp.

"Sansa?" Tyrion felt his heart quicken as he sat upright in her chair. She turned to him, her muscles relaxing as a grin glossed her lips.

"The gods are kind to you today, my lord," Sansa replied. She reached for his hand quickly, placing it on her round belly. Tyrion looked at her with confusion until he felt the slightest nudge.

"Speaking of the snow today, Tyrion," Sansa placed her hand over his. "You are the perfect father for my lion pups," she leaned in toward him, and he took the opportunity to kiss her.

"I hope we are not intruding too greatly," a voice interrupted their embrace, Tyrion's hand falling from his wife's belly.

"Not at all," the dwarf smiled as he looked up at Ser Garlan. "I do hope we did not cause you too much discomfort."

"There was none I felt, right my lord husband?" Lady Leonette shook her dark locks.

"Lady Leonette and I wished to greet the two of you. We have not properly seen the Lannister family in far too many years." Garlan let go of his wife's waist to lean forward to offer Tyrion his hand. The man shook it heartily in response.

"You are looking radiant, Lady Sansa," Lady Leonette commented. "I can see that you are going to be hosting another baby's welcome ceremony at Casterly Rock soon enough,"

Sansa placed her hand back onto her belly, "And I do hope you will be able to attend this one. How is your son? Do you remember, my husband, that Lady Leonette was unable to attend because she was expecting the birth of the second son of Ser Garlan."

"He is well, my lady, thank you for inquiring."

"We named him Kennet," Garlan smiled proudly. "We should bring the boys to Casterly Rock for a visit, when you are feeling well enough, Lady Sansa, and if that would not be of any inconvenience, Lord Tyrion."

"No inconvenience in the least, I am sure that Benjen and Gerion would appreciate the company." Tyrion agreed.

"Lord and Ladies of the North, the Middle Kingdoms, and Dorne," Jon stood, causing a hush to fall on the room.

"We should be on our way back to our seats," Ser Garlan ducked his head. "We hope to see you tomorrow before you leave for Casterly Rock?"

"Certainly," Tyrion responded.

When the couple had left, Tyrion felt Sansa's hand slid into his. She leaned her temple on his shoulder as Jon stood before the newlyweds, his gold crown atop his head glittering in contrast to his dark locks.

"We come together today to celebrate the union of my cousin, King Rickon Stark of the North, and his new wife Lady Lyanna Stark. We wish to the gods that their marriage will be blessed with happiness and fat children.

"We also remember the wedding which led to the forming of three independent sister kingdoms, and the peace that has come from such turmoil. It is with a sad heart that I remember my sister Arya, who should have been here to celebrate with us. And I pray to the gods that we will be kept from that reminder.

"And with those heavy thoughts spoken, I bid them leave this hall so that we may celebrate and drink and talk of grand times of old and golden days to come. Winter has left, let us grow strong in the spring."

The hall erupted in clapping and hoots of appreciation, the chaos signaling to the servants to begin bringing out the courses.

This wedding only had ten courses, Jon never wanting such expenses to dry out resources like that of the Purple Wedding a decade before. The feast was shorter than some weddings before, but all could attest that the time was well spent with friends and family, laughing and crying, telling stories and tales alike.

Tyrion laughed when several courses caused his wife to upturn her nose, pushing the bowl or plate away with force and turning her head. He waved for the dish to be removed from her presence and for her to be brought more sweet bread.

By the final course, many of the guests were drunk on good wine and better company, becoming even louder in their shouts and cries for the bedding ceremony to commence. When the Lord and Lady of Winterfell stood to be taken away, Tyrion sat seated with his wife.

The two watched as Lyanna and Rickon were taken up by the crowds of men and women and spirited away to the bed chambers. Sansa held her husband's hand as she laid her weary head on his shoulder once more.

"Are you ready to return to our chambers, my lady?" Tyrion asked, running his fingers through the hair that covered his arm, her auburn hair shining in the candlelight. "You appear to be ready for sleep."

Sansa only responded with a sad smile as she looked about the halls. "I remember this place, from when I was a child. When it was filled with my father's laughter and my mother's commands, my brother's shouts and my sister's answered cry. I remember my direwolf, Lady. She had such beautiful hair," she lifted her head so she could look at him, her blue eyes moist with memories.

"I wish I could have given you Winterfell," he answered her.

"But then I remember Casterly Rock, with the cries of my children echoing through the halls, the crash of the ocean on the cliff side, the sounds of Podrick training several new knights from Lannisport in the walls of the castle. The shouts of Benjen as he is learning to hold his own sword, the demands of Gerion increasing every day; there are even moments when I remember the shrill voice of Septa Sylva trying to keep them in order. And I remember your voice, Tyrion, in the children's bedchambers, when you read them tales of old, in the council room where you spread your wisdom and cleverness, in our bedroom, where you whisper compliments and elicit pleasure moans. And I realize now I was right, all those years ago." Her hand caressed his face gently. "The place where I can see the stars through the open balcony doors in the warm summers, the halls where I have cried my birthing pains, and my tears of heartbreak and celebration, that is my home. I love Winterfell, I miss the North, I miss the snowy seasons, but I would miss you more. I could never have left our life back then, my love, even when our times were as rocky as the cliffs below our bed chamber's window."

"You had too much faith in me, Sansa," Tyrion said.

"You had the same faith in me after I had just left this castle and was thrust into the world, into the bloodshed and the betrayal and the lust. You saw me as clever and strong in my weakness and façade, I had to believe that you were caring in your cruelty." She responded. "You made my heart bleed, Tyrion, when I first fell in love with you, and not matter how I tried, I could not stop its flow. I could not stop loving you once I had begun, I was too consumed."

Tyrion could not respond to her. He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, his hand running along her cheekbone and cupping the side of her head. She kissed him back, her mouth hard and wet against his, her arms fighting to embrace him.

He slowed the kiss, pulling all together from her. She watched him as he slid from the chair, he could feel the gaze on the back of his head. Turning, he held his hand out to her. "Come, my lady,"

Sansa took his hand and stood, wrapping her arm about his. Together the two began to walk down from end of the dais where they had been seated and through the great hall.

"I realized that I wanted you, Sansa, very early in our marriage. I wanted your happiness and your joy, I wanted you lusts and your caresses, and I thought I wanted your pain. But I did not understand what it was to want your pain and to bear it, and I bore it but I pushed you away, not wanting any of it." Tyrion spoke. "I now want it, Sansa. I want you to give me all your tears and your hurts and your heart."

"But you already have it all, my love," Sansa responded.

"And I will never cause another flood of anger to drown you," he answered her.

"I love you, Tyrion Lannister," her statement rang in the empty great hall of Winterfell.

"And I love you, my radiant beauty, Sansa Lannister," he responded. "And I will love you until the stars burn out."


End file.
